The  Gypsy  Christ 

And  Other  Tales 

BY 

WILLIAM    SHARP 


CHICAGO 
STONE    &    KIMBALL 

MDCCCXCV 


COPYRIGHT,    1895,  BY 
STONE     AND     KIMBALL 


7/^ 


TO 

LADY   COLIN    CAMPBELL 

FROM    HER    FRIEND 

THE   AUTHOR   OF   THESE   DIVERS  TALES   OF 

DIVERS    LANDS 


EIGUSH 


Contents 


THE    GYPSY    CHRIST  3 

MADGE    O'     THE    POOL  75 

THE    COWARD  129 

A    VENETIAN    IDYL  I71 

THE    GRAVEN    IMAGE  215 

THE    LADY    IN    HOSEA  237 

FROKEN    BERGLIOT  155 


.f 


THE   GYPSY   CHRIST. 


The   Gypsy   Christ. 


I. 


There  are,  among  the  remote  uplands  of  the 
Peak  district,  regions  whose  solitude  is  that  of 
a  wilderness.  Over  much  of  the  country  there 
is  a  frown.  When  fair  weather  prevails :  though 
these  lofty  plateaux  are  seldom  wholly  free 
from  cloud-shadow:  this  frown  is  merely  that 
of  a  stern  man,  preoccupied  with  sombre 
thoughts.  When  there  come  rain  and  wind, 
and  still  more  the  dull  absorbing  gloom  that 
floods  out  of  the  east  and  the  north-east,  the 
frown  is  forbidding,  minatory  even,  at  times 
almost  tragic.  Viewed  anywhere  from  High 
Peak  to  Sir  William,  these  uplands  are  like 
the  sea.  They  reach  onward,  lapse,  merge  into 
each  other,  in  a  similar  succession  of  vast  bil- 


4  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

lows :  grand  as  they,  as  apparently  limitless, 
and,  at  times,  as  overwhelmingly  depressing. 

The  villages  are  scattered,  insignificant: 
built  of  dull,  grey  stone:  gardenless,  flowerless. 
The  people  are  uncouth  in  speech  and  manner : 
cold,  too,  as  the  stone  of  their  houses,  and 
strangely  quiet  in  the  ordinary  expression  of 
emotion. 

In  all  regions  where  the  wind  is  the  para- 
mount feature  in  the  duel  between  man  and 
the  powers  of  nature,  as  upon  the  seas  and 
great  moorland  tracts,  it  is  noticeable  that 
human  voices  are  pitched  in  an  unusually  low 
key.  In  remote  islands,  upon  mountains,  on 
the  billows  of  hill-land  that  sweep  up  from  the 
plains  and  fall  away  in  dales  and  valleys,  on 
long  flats  of  grass,  fen,  or  morass,  and  upon 
the  seas,  the  human  voice  takes  to  itself  in  time 
a  peculiar,  and  to  those  who  know  the  cause, 
a  strangely  impressive  hush.  Here,  it  is  as  of 
men  subdued,  but  resentful,  forever  gloomful. 

No  land  is  so  dreary  as  to  be  without  redeem- 
ing beauty.  The  hill-region  of  the  Peak,  that 
most  visited  at  any  rate,  has  singular  charm. 
The  dales  are  famous  for  their  loveliness,  their 
picturesqueness ;   the  heather  slopes  for  their 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  5 

blithe  air^'the  high  moors  for  their  wide  per- 
spectives, their  clear  windy  breath,  their  glory 
of  l*ght  and  shadow.  Nevertheless,  there  are 
vast  districts  where  nature,  and  man,  and  the 
near  way  and  the  wide  prospect,  and  the  very 
immensity  of  the  environing  sky,  are  permeated 
with  the  inner  spirit  of  gloom,  as  the  cloud- 
caravans  of  July  with  their  burden  of  thunder. 
There  are  reasons  why  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
explicit  topographically,  in  what  I  am  about  to 
narrate  :  indeed,  no  one  from  what  I  write, 
could  find  the  Wood  o'  Wendray,  or  the  House 
o'  Fanshawe.  It  must  suffice,  that  what  I  have 
to  tell  occurred  in  the  remotest,  perhaps  the 
grandest,  certainly  to  me  the  most  impressive 
region  of  the  Peak-Land. 

Far  among  these  uplands  ;  at  the  locality  I 
mean,  from  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  to  two 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea ;  there  is  an  almost 
trackless  morass,  called  Grailph  Moss. 

The  name  is  by  some  supposed  to  be  a 
corruption  of  grey  wolf :  for  here,  according  to 
rumour,  the  last  wolf  in  England  had  its  lair, 
and  might  have  been  living  still  (for  the  hunts- 
men aver  that  the  grey  wolf  lives  three  hundred 


6  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

years ! )  but  for  its  audacity  at  the  time  of  the 
Great  Plague.  Packmen  and  other  wayfarers 
have  alleged  that  on  wild  nights  of  storm,  or 
in  even  more  perilous  seasons  of  mist  or  marsh- 
fog,  they  have  seen  a  gaunt  shape  leap  towards 
them  from  a  dense  clump  of  heather  or  from 
behind  a  juniper,  or  have  heard,  behind  or  in 
stealthy  circuit,  terrifying  footfalls  as  of  a  huge 
dog. 

Grailph  Moss  comes  right  upon  an  old  dis- 
used highway.  Along  this  road,  at  far  inter- 
vals, are  desolate  hamlets  :  in  all  save  the  three 
summer  months,  apt  to  be  isled  in  the  mist 
breathed  from  the  myriad  nostrils  of  the  great 
Fen.  At  these  times,  the  most  dreadful  thing 
to  endure  is  the  silence. 

Not  far  from  one  of  these  hamlets,  and  some- 
what more  removed  from  the  contagion  of  the 
Moss  :  high-set,  indeed,  and  healthy,  if  sombre 
of  aspect  save  under  the  fugitive  bloom  of  the 
afterglow,  or  where  redeemed  by  the  moonlight 
to  an  austere  beauty :  is  a  strange  house,  the 
strangest  I  have  seen  anywhere. 

The  House  o'  Fanshawe,  it  is  called  in  the 
neighbourhood :  though  what  is  perplexing  is 
that  the  name  is  centuries  old,  though  for  cent- 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  7 

uries  no  family  of  that  name  occupied  the  Manor 
of  Eastrigg  :  nor  is  there  any  local  legend  con- 
ceraing  a  Fanshawe,  or  record  of  any  kind  to 
account  for  the  persistency  of  the  designation. 
Long  before  my  friend,  James  Fanshawe, 
took  the  Manor,  ruin  had  come  upon  the  middle 
as  well  as  the  northern  portion.  In  fact,  the 
southern  end,  which  had  been  the  original 
Elizabethan  house,  was  scarce  better,  and  had 
been  preserved  at  all  only  because  of  its  fan- 
tastic, often  beautiful,  and  always  extraordinary 
roof  and  wainscot  carvings.  These  were  none 
the  less  striking  from  the  fact  that  they  were 
whitewashed.  JVIany  were  in  a  fashion  sugges- 
tive of  the  Arabesques  of  Barbary,  such  as  are 
to  be  seen  to  this  day  in  the  private  houses  of 
the  rich  Moors  of  Tlemgen  or  Tunis.  Others 
recalled  the  freaks  of  the  later  Renaissance 
imagination :  and  some  were  of  Gothic  rude- 
ness and  vigor.  But  the  most  extraordinary 
room  of  all  was  a  small  chamber  opening  from 
a  large  vaulted  apartment.  All  the  panels  on 
three  sides  of  the  room,  and  the  whole  roof, 
were  covered  with  arabesques  of  the  Cruci- 
fixion :  no  one  whitewashed  carving  quite  like 
any    other,   though    all    relentlessly    realistic, 


8  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

sometimes  savagely,  brutally  so.  The  fourth 
side  was  of  varnished  black  oak.  Against  this, 
in  startling  relief,  was  a  tall  white  cross,  set  in 
a  black  stand;  with  a  drooping  and  terrible 
figure  of  the  crucified  God,  the  more  painfully 
arresting  from  the  fact  that  the  substance  of 
which  it  had  been  wrought  had  been  dyed  a 
vivid  scarlet,  that,  with  time,  had  become 
blood-red. 

A  word  as  to  how  I  came  to  know  this  house 
in  this  remote  and  desolate  region. 

Two  or  three  years  ago,  when  wandering 
afoot  through  Croatia,  I  encountered  James 
Fanshawe.  There  is  no  need  to  narrate  what 
led  up  to  our  strange  meeting,  for  a  strange 
meeting  in  strange  circumstances,  and  in  a 
strange  place,  it  was.  It  will  suffice  for  me  to 
say  that  our  encounter,  our  voluntary  acquaint- 
anceship, and  our  subsequent  friendship,  all 
arose  from  the  circumstance  that  each  of  us 
could,  with  more  justice  than  some  who  have 
done  so,  claim  to  be  a  Romany  Rye  —  which 
is  not  exactly  "a  gentleman-gypsy,"  as  com- 
monly translated,  but  rather  an  amateur-gypsy, 
or   as  a  "brother"   once  phrased  it  to  me  "a 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  9 

sympathising  make-believe  gypsy."  There  are 
some  who  can  talk  the  dialects  of  "  Little 
Egj^t,"  or  at  least  understand  them,  and  many 
who  know  something  of  the  folk-lore,  habits, 
and  customs  of  the  wandering  people :  but 
there  are  few,  I  take  it,  who  have  lived  the 
gypsy-life  —  who  have  undergone,  or  even  heard 
of,  the  ordeal  of  the  Blue  Smoke,  the  Two 
Fires,  and  the  Running  Water. 

Thereafter,  we  met  on  several  occasions : 
frequently  in  Italy,  or  the  Tyrol,  or  southern 
Germany  :  generally  by  pre-arrangement.  The 
last  time  I  saw  Fanshawe,  until  I  met  him  in 
Glory  Woods,  near  Dorking,  was  in  the  Hohen- 
heim  country,  on  the  high  plateau  to  the  south- 
west of  Stuttgart.  It  was  then  he  told  me  he 
had  been  Jo  England,  and  had  travelled  afoot 
from  Southampton  to  Hull :  and  that  he  had  at 
last  decided  to  settle  in  that  country,  probably 
in  the  New  Forest  region.  I  promised  to  visit 
him  in  England  when  next  there.  I  wanted  to 
fare  awhile  with  him  there  and  then,  but  as  it 
was  clear  he  did  not  at  that  juncture  wish  my 
company,  I  forbore. 

James   Fanshawe    was    a    noticeable    man. 
Tall,  sinewy,  ruddy  though  with  dark,  luminous 


10  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

eyes,  and  long,  trailing,  coal-black  moustache, 
he  would  not  have  seemed  more  than  thirty 
years  old  but  for  his  iron-gray  hair,  and  the 
deep  crow's  feet  about  his  mouth,  eyes,  and 
temples.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was,  at  the 
time  I  first  met  him,  at  the  Midsummer's-day 
of  human  hf e ;  for  he  had  just  entered  his 
fortieth  year. 

One  early  spring  day,  when,  by  the  merest 
hazard,  we  came  across  each  other  in  Glory 
Woods,  he  reminded  me  that  nearly  two  years 
had  passed  since  my  promise  to  visit  him.  He 
had  not,  after  all,  settled  in  the  south  country, 
but,  he  told  me,  in  a  strange  old  house,  in  a 
remote  and  wild  moorland  tract  of  Derbyshire. 
While  he  spoke,  I  was  observant  of  the  great 
change  in  him.  He  had  grown  ten,  fifteen 
years  older  in  appearance.  The  iron-gray  hair 
had  become  white ;  the  strong  face,  rigid ;  the 
swift,  alert  look  now  that  of  a  visionary,  or  of 
one  who  brooded  much.  Perhaps  the  most 
marked  change  was  in  the  eyes.  What  had 
always  struck  me  as  their  dusky,  velvety  Czech 
beauty  was  no  longer  noticeable.  They  were 
much  lighter,  and  had  a  strange,  staring  inten- 
sity. 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  ii 

But  I  was  glad  to  see  him  again:  glad  to 
pick  up  lost  clues,  and  glad  to  be  able  to  pro- 
mise to  be  with  him  at  Eastrigg  Manor  at  the 
end  of  the  sixth  week  from  that  date. 

That  is  how  I  came  to  know  the  "  House  o' 
Fanshawe." 


12  The  Gypsy  Christ. 


II. 


Eastrigg  itself  is  more  than  twenty  miles 
from  the  nearest  station.  The  drive  thence 
seemed  the  longer  and  drearier  because  of  the 
wet  mist  which  hung  over  the  country.  Even 
sounds  were  soaked  up  by  it.  I  never  passed 
through  a  drearier  land.  Mid-April,  and  not  a 
green  thing  visible,  not  a  bird's  note  audible  ! 

The  driver  of  the  gig  was  taciturn,  yet  could 
not  quite  restrain  his  curiosity.  He  was  not 
an  Eastrigg  man,  but  knew  the  place,  and  all 
connected  with  it.  He  would  fain  have  ascer- 
tained somewhat  about  its  owner;  perhaps, 
too,  about  myself,  or  at  any  rate  about  my 
object  in  coming  to  the  reputed  haunted,  if  not 
accursed  House  o'  Fanshawe,  where  my  host- 
to-be  lived  alone,  attended  only  by  an  old  man 
named  Hoare,  a  "  foreigner "  too,  because 
come  from  the  remote  south  country.  When, 
however,  he  found  me  even  more  reserved  than 
himself,  he  desisted  from  further  inquiry,  or 
indeed  remarks  of  any  kind. 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  13 

It  was  in,  silence  that  we  drove  the  last  ten 
miles;  in  silence  that  we  jolted  along  a  rude, 
grassy  highway  of  olden  days,  heavily  rutted  ; 
in  silence  that  we  passed,  first  one,  then  another 
gaunt  ruin, — two  of  the  many  long-deserted 
lead-mine  chimneys  which  stand  here  and  there 
throughout  that  country,  and  add  unspeakably 
to  its  desolation.  Finally,  in  silence  we  reached 
the  House  o'  Fanshawe. 

A  small  side-door,  under  heavy  beams, 
opened.  An  elderly  man  stood,  his  right  hand 
over  his  eyes,  and  his  left  holding  a  lantern 
which  emitted  a  pale  yellow  glow,  beneath 
which  his  face  was  almost  as  wan  and  white 
as  his  bleached  hair. 

He  looked  at  me  anxiously,  questioningly,  I 
thought.  Instinctively,  I  inquired  if  Mr. 
Fanshawe  were  imwell. 

"Are  you  a  doctor.?"  he  asked,  almost  in  a 
whisper;  adding,  on  my  reply  in  the  negative, 
"  I  hoped  you  might  be.  I  fear  the  master  is 
dying." 

Startled,  I  unburdened  myself  of  my  wet 
overcoat,  and  then  followed  the  man  along  a 
rambling  passage.  On  the  way,  he  confided  to 
me  that  though   Mr.  Fanshawe   was    up   and 


14  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

about,  he  had  been  very  strange  of  late,  and 
that  he  ate  little,  slept  httle,  and  was  sometimes 
away  on  the  Moss  or  the  higher  moors  for  ten 
or  twelve  hours  at  a  time ;  further,  that  within 
the  last  few  days  he  had  become  steadily 
worse. 

Even  this  forewarning  did  not  adequately 
prepare  me  for  the  change  in  my  friend.  When 
I  saw  him,  he  was  sitting  in  the  twilight  before 
a  peat  fire  on  which  a  log,  aflame  at  one  end 
though  all  charred  at  the  other,  burned  brightly. 
His  hair  was  quite  white:  so  white  that  that  of 
his  man,  Robert  Hoare,  was  of  a  yellow  hue  by 
comparison.  It  hung  long  and  lank  about  his 
cadaverous  face,  which,  in  its  wanness  and 
rigid  lines,  was  that  of  a  corpse,  except  for  the 
dark  luminous  eyes  I  remembered  so  well,  once 
more  like  what  they  were  in  the  days  I  first 
knew  him,  but  now  so  intensely,  passionately 
alive,  that  it  was  as  though  the  flame  of  his  life 
were  concentred  there.  He  rose,  stiffly  and 
as  though  with  difficulty,  and  I  saw  how  wo- 
fully  thin  he  had  become.  It  was  with  a  shock 
of  surprise  I  realized  what  vitality  the  man  still 
had,  when  he  took  my  hand  in  his,  gripped  it 
almost  as  powerfully  as  of  yore,  and  half  led, 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  15 

half  pushed  me  into  an  arm-chair  opposite  his 
own. 

Yes,  he  admitted,  he  had  been  ill,  but  was 
now  "Setter.  Soon,  he  hoped,  he  would  be  quite 
well  again.  The  eyes  contradicted  the  lie  of 
the  lips. 

After  a  time,  our  constraint  wore  off;  but 
though  I  avoided  the  subject  of  his  health  and 
recent  way  of  life,  he  interrupted  me  again  and 
again  to  assure  me  that  he  would  not  have  let 
me  come  so  far,  to  visit  so  dreary  a  house,  and 
see  so  unentertaining  an  invalid,  had  he  known 
how  to  intercept  me. 

Suddenly  he  rose,  and  insisted  on  showing 
me  over  the  house.  Room  by  room  fascinated 
me;  but  that  small  chamber  of  which  I  have 
already  spoken,  that  with  the  crucifix,  gave  me 
nothing  short  of  an  uncontrollable  repugnance, 
something  akin  to  horror.  He  noticed  this, 
though  neither  the  lips  offered  nor  the  eyes 
invited  any  remark. 

No  wonder  that  from  the  several  ominous 
circumstances  of  this  meeting  I  was  half  pre- 
pared for  some  unpleasant  or  even  tragic  de- 
nouement. But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  nothing 
happened  to  alarm  or  further  perturb  me  ;  and 


l6  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

long  before  I  went  to  my  room  I  had  noticed  a 
marked  improvement  in  Fanshawe, — that  is, 
in  his  mental  condition ;  physically,  he  was  still 
very  distraught  as  well  as  frail,  and  appeared  to 
suffer  extremely  from  what  I  took  to  be  nervous 
cold,  though  he  said  it  was  the  swamp-ague. 
"The  Moss  Fiend  had  got  him,"  he  declared. 
He  wore  a  long  frieze  overcoat,  even  as  he  sat 
by  the  fire  ;  and  all  the  time,  even  at  our  frugal 
supper,  kept  his  hands  half  covered  in  thick 
mittens. 

Naturally  enough,  I  did  not  sleep  for  long. 
In  the  first  place,  sleep  is  always  tardy  with  me 
in  absolutely  windless  or  close,  rainy  weather; 
then  the  absolute  silence,  the  sense  of  isolation, 
affected  me ;  and,  more  effectually  still,  I  could 
hear  Fanshawe  monotonously  walking  to  and 
fro  in  the  room  to  my  right.  This  room,  more- 
over, was  no  other  than  the  fantastically  deco- 
rated ante-chamber.  I  could  scarce  bear  to 
think  of  my  distraught  friend,  sleepless,  and 
wearily  active,  in  the  company  of  that  terrifying 
crucifix,  that  chamber  of  the  myriad  reduplica- 
tions of  the  Passion.  But  at  last  I  slept,  and 
slept  well;  nor  did  I  wake  till  the  late  sunlight 
streamed  in  upon  me  through  the  unshuttered 
and  blindless  window. 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  17 

We  spent^ost  of  that  day  in  the  open  air. 
The  morning  was  so  blithe  and  sweet,  Fan- 
shawe  lost  something  of  his  air  of  tragic  ill; 
and  I  began  to  entertain  hopes  of  his  ultimate 
recovery.  But  in  the  early  afternoon,  when  we 
had  returned  for  the  meal  which  had  been  pre- 
pared for  us  an  hour  before,  the  weather  changed. 
It  grew  sultry  and  overclouded.  The  glass,  too, 
had  fallen  abruptly.  The  change  affected  my 
friend  in  a  marked  degree.  He  became  less 
and  less  communicative,  and  at  last  morose  and 
almost  sullen. 

I  proposed  another  walk.  He  agreed,  with 
an  eagerness  that  surprised  me.  "  I  will  show 
you  one  or  two  places  where  I  often  go,"  he 
added :  "  places  that  the  country  people  about 
here  avoid;  for  the  moor-folk  are  superstitious, 
as  all  who  live  in  remote  places  are." 

The  day,  as  I  have  said,  had  become  dull 
and  heavy;  and  what  with  the  atmospheric 
change,  and  the  saturnine  mood  of  my  com- 
panion, I  felt  depressed.  The  two  gaunt  chim- 
neys which  rose  above  their  respective  mines 
were  my  skeletons  at  the  feast.  Otherwise  I 
could  have  enjoyed  many  things  in,  and  aspects 
of,  that  unfamiliar   country;    but    these    tall, 

2 


l8  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

sombre,  bat-haunted,  wind-gnawed  "stacks," 
rising  from  dishevelled  ruins,  which,  again, 
overlay  the  deserted  lead-mines,  oppressed  me 
beyond  all  reason. 

At  one  of  these  we  stopped.  Fanshawe 
asked  me  to  throw  something  into  a  hollow 
place  beyond  one  of  the  walls  of  a  building. 
I  lifted  a  large  stone,  and  threw  it  as  directed. 
I  thought,  at  first,  it  had  fallen  on  soft  grass,  or 
among  weeds  and  nettles,  for  no  sound  was 
audible.  Then,  as  it  were  underfoot,  I  heard  a 
confused  clamour,  followed  by  the  faint  echo  of 
a  splash. 

"  That  will  give  you  some  idea  of  the  depth 
of  the  mine,"  my  companion  remarked  quietly. 
"  But  it  is  deeper  than  you  imagine,  even  now. 
There  are  sloping  ledges  under  that  water  in 
which  the  stone  fell  at  last ;  and  beneath  these 
ledges  are  corridors  leading  far  into  the  caverns 
whence  nothing  ever  comes  again." 

"  It  is  not  a  place  for  a  nervous  person  to 
come  to,"  I  answered,  with  as  much  indiffer- 
ence as  I  could  assume;  "nor  for  any  one  after 
sundown,  and  alone." 

Fanshawe  looked  at  me  passively,  then  said 
quietly  that  he  often  came  there. 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  19 

"  I  wond^,"  he  added,  "  how  many  dead  will 
arise  from  a  place  like  this  when  the  trump  of 
the  Resurrection  stirs  the  land  ? " 

"  Has  anyone  ever  fallen  into  this  mine,  or 
been  murdered  in  it  ? " 

"  They  say  so.  It  is  very  likely.  But  come : 
I  will  show  you  a  stranger  thing." 

So  on  we  trudged  again,  for,  I  should  think, 
nearly  a  mile,  and  mostly  through  a  thin  wood. 
I  wondered  what  new  unpleasant  feature  of  this 
unattractive  country  I  was  to  see.  It  was  with 
half  angry  surprise  I  was  confronted  at  last  by 
a  thick  scrub  of  gorse,  overhung  by  three  large 
birches,  and  told  that  there  was  what  we  had 
come  to  see.  Naturally,  there  was  nothing  to 
arrest  my  attention.  When  I  said  so,  however, 
Fanshawe  rnade  no  reply.  I  saw  that  he  was 
powerfully  affected,  though  whether  grief  or 
some  other  emotion  wrought  him,  I  could  not 
determine. 

Suddenly  he  turned,  said  harshly  that  he  was 
dead  tired,  and  wished  to  go  home  straightway. 
Beyond  a  statement  about  a  short  cut  by  Dalla- 
way  Moor,  he  did  not  vouchsafe  another  re- 
mark until  we  reached  the  Manor. 

At  the  entrance,  Hoare  met  us,  and  was  about 


20  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

to  speak,  when  he  saw  that  his  master  was  not 
listening,  but  rigid,  with  moving  jaw,  and  wild 
eyes,  was  staring  at  the  panels  of  the  door. 

"  Who  .  .  .  who  has  been  here  ? "  he  cried 
hoarsely  ;  but  for  answer  the  man  merely  shook 
his  head  stupidly,  muttering  at  last  that  not  a 
soul  had  been  near  the  place. 

"  Who  has  been  here?  Who  has  been  here? 
Who  did  this?"  my  friend  gaspingly  reiterated, 
as  he  pointed  to  a  small  green  cross,  the  paint 
still  wet,  impressed  a  foot  or  more  above  the 
latch. 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  21 


III. 

Fanshawe  was  taciturn  throughout  the  first 
part  of  the  evening.  We  ate  our  meal  in  silence. 
Afterwards,  in  his  study,  he  maintained  the 
same  self-absorption,  and  for  a  long  time  seemed 
unaware  that  he  was  not  alone.  The  atmos- 
pherical oppression  made  this  silence  still  more 
obvious.  Even  the  fire  burned  dully,  and  the 
smoke  that  went  up  from  the  mist-wet  logs  was 
thick  and  heavy. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  relief  I  heard  an  abrupt, 
hollow,  booming  sound,  as  of  distant  guns  at 
sea.  The'  long-expected  thunder  was  drawing 
near.  For  many  minutes  after  this,  the  silence 
could  be  heard.  Then  there  came  a  blast  of 
wind  that  struck  the  house  heavily,  for  all  the 
world  like  an  enormous  billow  flooding  down 
upon  and  all  but  engulfing  a  dismasted  ship. 

Fanshawe  raised  his  head,  and  listened  in- 
tently. A  distant,  remotely  thin  wail  was  audible 
for  a  few  seconds :  the  voice  of  the  wind-eddy 


.f 


22  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

far  away  upon  the  moors.  Then,  once  more, 
the  same  ominous  silence. 

"  I  hope  the  storm  will  break  soon,"  I  said  at 
last. 

"  Yes.  We  '11  have  one  or  two  more  blasts 
like  that,  then  a  swift  rain ;  then  the  night  will 
become  black  as  ink,  and  the  thunderstorm 
will  rage  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  suddenly  come 
back  upon  us  again  worse  than  before." 

I  looked  at  my  friend  surprisedly. 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  many  thunderstorms  and  gales 
on  these  moorlands." 

I  was  about  to  say  something  further,  when 
I  saw  a  look  upon  my  companion's  face  which 
I  took  to  be  that  of  arrested  thought  or  arrested 
speech. 

I  was  right  in  my  surmise,  for,  in  a  low  voice, 
he  resumed:  — 

"  You  will  doubtless  hear  many  another 
storm  such  as  this.  As  for  me,  it  is  the  last  to 
which  I  shall  ever  listen :  unless,  as  may  well 
be,  the  dead  hear.  After  all,  what  grander 
death-hymn  could  one  have  ? " 

"  You  are  ill,  Fanshawe,  but  not  so  ill  as  you 
believe.  In  any  case,  you  do  not  fear  you  are 
going  to  die  to-night  ?  " 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  23 

He  looked  at  me  long  and  earnestly  before 
he  answered? 

"I  —  suppose  —  not,"  he  said  slowly,  at  last, 
but  ifl  the  meditative  way  of  one  revolving  a 
dubious  matter  in  his  mind:  "no,  I  suppose 
not  necessarily  to-night. ''"' 

A  long  discordant  cry  of  the  wind  came  wail- 
ing across  the  Reach  0'  Dallaway.  It  was 
scarce  gone,  when  a  ponderous  distant  crashing 
betokened  the  onset  of  the  elemental  strife  to 
be  fought  out  overhead. 

The  effect  upon  Fanshawe  was  electric.  He 
rose,  moved  to  and  fro,  twice  went  to  the  win- 
dow, and  drew  up  the  blind.  The  second  time, 
he  opened  the  latch.  The  window  was  of  the 
kind  called  half-French;  that  is,  it  was  of  a 
single  sheet  of  glass,  but  came  no  further  than 
two  thirds  -of  the  way  down,  the  lower  third 
being  of  solid  wood,  and  could  be  opened 
(drawn  inward)  only  in  its  glazed  section. 

He  withdrew  the  fastening,  stooped,  and 
peered  into  the  yard.  A  stealthy,  shuffling 
sound  was  audible,  followed  by  a  low  whine. 

Fanshawe  seemed  satisfied,  and,  having 
closed  the  latch,  drew  together  the  thick,  heavy 
curtains. 


.r 


24  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

"  That  was  my  bloodhound,  Grailph,"  he 
explained.  "  I  always  let  him  out  at  night. 
He  keeps  watch  here.  He  is  a  huge  beast, 
cream-white  in  color,  and  so  is  as  rare  and 
remarkable  as  he  is  trustworthy.  I  brought 
him,  as  a  puppy,  from  Transylvania.  The 
people  hereabouts  hate  and  fear  him  ;  the  more 
so,  because  of  his  name.  I  have  told  you  about 
the  legend  of  Grailph  Moss  ?  Yes  ?  Well,  the 
rumour  has  filtered  from  mind  to  mind  that  my 
Grailph  is  no  other  than  the  original  Grailph, 
or  Grey  Wolf ;  and  that  in  some  way  he,  I, 
and  the  '  House  o'  Fanshawe '  are  connected 
in  an  uncanny  destiny." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you're  not?"  I  inter- 
rupted, half  in  badinage,  half  in  earnest. 

He  took  my  remark  seriously,  however. 

"  No  ;  I  am  not  sure.  But  who  can  tell  what 
is  the  secret  thing  that  lies  hidden  in  the  ninth 
shadow,  the  ninth  wave,  and  the  brain  of  a 
ninth  child  ?  " 

"  Ah,  you  remember  what  old  Mark  Zengro 
said  that  day  by  the  cavern  of  the  Jallusietch, 
in  Bohemia !  How  well  I  remember  that  after- 
noon :  how  he  called  you  Brother,  and  .  .  ." 

"WeU?" 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  25 

"  Oh,  and  what  a  strange  talk  we  had  after- 
wards by  tht  fire,  when  ..." 

"  No ;  that  was  not  what  you  were  going  to 
say.  "^  You  were  about  to  add  :  '•  How  angry  you 
•were  whe?i  Zeiigro  viade  with  his  forefinger  the 
sign  of  a  circle  about  him  ;  and  how  you  nearly 
left  the  camp  then  and  there.^  Is  not  that 
true  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  true." 

"  I  thought  so.  Well,  I  had  good  reason  to 
be  angry." 

"  Oh,  his  action  meant  only  that  he  took  you 
to  be  fey,  as  we  say  in  the  north." 

"  No,  it  meant  more  than  that.  But  this 
brings  me  to  what  I  have  wanted  to  say  to  you : 
what  must  be.  told  to-night." 

He  stopped,  for  the  roar  about  the  house 
shook  it  to-  its  foundations :  one  of  those  swift, 
howling  whirlwinds  which  sometimes  precede 
the  steady  march  of  the  mighty  host  of  the 
thunder. 

When  it  was  over,  he  pulled  away  the  smok- 
ing logs  from  the  fire  and  substituted  three  or 
four  of  dry  pine  and  larch,  already  dusted  with 
salt.  The  flame  was  so  vivid  and  cheerful  that, 
when  my  host  eclipsed  the  lamplight,  and  left 


.f 


26  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

us  in  the  pleasant  firelit  gloom,  the  change  was 
welcome,  though  the  wildness  of  the  night  with- 
out seemed  to  be  enhanced. 

For  at  least  five  minutes  Fanshawe  sat  silent, 
staring  into  the  red  glow  over  which  the  blue 
and  yellow  tongues  of  flame  wove  an  endless 
weft.     Then,  abruptly,  he  began  :  ^  — 

"  You  know  that  I  have  Gypsy  blood  in  me. 
It  is  true.  But  I  do  not  think  you  know  how 
strong  in  the  present,  how  remote  in  the  past, 
the  strain  is.  In  the  twelfth  century  my  par- 
ental ancestors  were  of  what  might  be  called 
the  blood-royal  among  the  Children  of  the 
Wind.  One  of  them,  head  of  a  great  clan  at 
that  time  dispersed,  during  the  summer  months, 
through  the  region  of  the  New  Forest,  was 
named  John  the  Heron.  Hunting  one  day  in 
these  woodlands,   the   king's   brother  was   set 

1  His  narrative,  in  its  earlier  stages,  was  much  longer 
than  my  partial  reproduction  of  it;  for  some  of  it  dealt 
with  irrelative  matters,  some  of  it  was  merely  reminiscent 
of  our  own  meetings  and  experiences  in  common,  and 
some  of  it  was  abruptly  discursive.  Interwrought  with  it 
were  the  sudden  tumults,  the  tempestuous  violence  of  that 
night  of  storm  :  when,  through  it  all,  tlie  thunder  was  to 
me  as  the  flying  shuttle  in  the  Loom  of  Destiny. 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  27 

upon  by  outlaws.  They  would  have  killed,  or 
at  least  withlfeld  him  against  a  ransom,  but  for 
the  bravery  of  his  unknown  gypsy  ally.  The 
royal  duke  was  grateful,  and  so  in  turn  was  the 
king.  Wild  John  the  Heron  became  John 
Heron  of  Roehurst  and  the  lands  round  Elv- 
wick.  He  had  seven  sons,  five  of  whom  died 
tragic  deaths  or  mysteriously  disappeared.  The 
eldest  in  due  time  succeeded  his  father;  the 
youngest  travelled  into  Derbyshire  in  the  train 
of  a  great  lord.  In  those  days  the  most  ancient, 
the  proudest,  but  even  then  the  most  impover- 
ished of  the  old  families  of  that  region,  was  the 
house  of  Ravenshawe.  Its  head  was  Sir  Alu- 
red  Ravenshawe,  a  man  so  haughty  that  it  was 
said  he  thought  the  king  his  inferior.  Gilbert 
Heron  was  able  to  do  him  a  great  service;  and 
ultimately,  through  this  influence,  the  young 
man  succeeded  to  the  name  and  titles  of  a 
beggared  and  outlawed  knight.  Sir  Vane  Fan- 
shawe.  Nevertheless,  there  could  have  been 
no  question  of  the  marriage  of  the  young  Sir 
Gilbert  Fanshawe  (for  the  name  of  Heron  was 
to  be  relinquished)  with  the  lady  Frida,  though 
the  young  people  had  fallen  in  love  with  each 
other  at  their  first  meeting ;  and,  ultimately,  it 


28  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

was  permitted  at  all,  and  then  reluctantly,  only 
because  of  two  further  happenings.     The  first 
of  these  was  the  undertaking  of  the  great  lord 
with  whom  the  young  man  was  (a  nearkins  man 
and  friend  of  Sir  Alured  Ravenshawe),  that  the 
king   would   speedily   make    Sir    Gilbert    Fan- 
shawe  of  Roehurst  in    Hants  and  Eastrigg  in 
the   shire   of  Derby,  a   baron.      At  that   time, 
there  was  no  actual  village  of  Eastrigg,  but  only 
a  small  hamlet  called  Fanshawe,  or,  as  it  was 
then  given,    The    Fan   Shawe.       These   lands 
belonged  to  Ravenshawe,  and  he  gave   them  to 
his  daughter  as  a  wedding  gift,  on  the  condition 
that  the  king  made  her  betrothed  a  noble,  and 
that  he  became  known  as  Baron  Fanshawe  of 
Fanshawe. 

"  All  this  was  duly  done,  and  yet  there  seems 
to  have  been  deception  in  the  matter  of  the 
Gypsy  origin;  for  about  the  time  of  the  birth 
of  an  heir  to  my  lord  of  Fanshawe,  Sir  Alured 
refused  to  hold  any  communication  with  his 
son-in-law,  or  even  to  see  his  daughter.  A 
Ravenshawe,  he  declared,  could  have  nothing 
in  common  with  a  base-born  alien. 

"  It  was  some  years  after  this  that  strange 
rumors  got  about  concerning  not   only   Lord 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  29 

Fanshawe  byt  also  The  Chase,  as  his  castellated 
manor  was  called.  A  wild  and  barbaric  folk 
sojourjied  in  its  neighbourhood,  or  in  the  adja- 
cent forests.  A  contagion  of  suspicion,  of  a 
vague  dread,  of  a  genuine  animosity,  spread 
abroad.  Then  it  was  commonly  averred  that 
my  lord  was  mad,  for  had  he  not  been  heard  to 
proclaim  himself  the  Christ,  or  at  any  rate  to 
speak  and  act  as  though  he  were  no  other  than 
at  least  the  second  Christ,  of  whose  coming  men 
dreamed  ? 

"  One  day  Sir  Alured  Ravenshawe  appeared 
in  the  camp  of  the  Egj'ptians,  as  the  alien  wan- 
dering-folk were  wont  to  be  called.  What  he 
learned  from  the  patriarch  infuriated  him  to 
frenzy.  '  Let  the  dog  of  the  race  of  Kundry 
die  the  death  he  mocks,'  he  cried;  'and  lo, 
herewith  I  give  you  my  bond  that  no  harm  shall 
come  to  you  or  your  people's  goods,  though  you 
must  sojourn  here  no  more.' 

"  Then  it  was  that  the  Egyptians  waylaid  their 
kinsman,  the  Lord  Fanshawe  of  Fanshawe,  and 
crowned  and  mocked  him  as  the  Gj'psy  Christ, 
and  crucified  him  upon  a  great  leafless  tree  in 
the  forest  now  known  as  the  Wood  o'  Wendray. 
Thereafter,  for  a  long  period,  the  place  knew 


30  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

them  no  more.  But,  in  going,  they  took  se- 
cretly with  them  the  infant  Gabriel,  only  child 
of  the  House  o'  Fanshawe." 

For  a  time  after  this,  Fanshawe  ceased  speak- 
ing. We  both  sat,  our  gaze  intent  upon  the 
fire,  listening  to  the  growing  savagery  of  the 
storm  without.  Then,  without  preamble,  he  re- 
sumed. He  had  a  habit,  when  in  the  least  de- 
gree wrought  by  impatience  or  excitement,  of 
clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands ;  and  his 
doing  so  now  was  the  more  noticeable  because 
of  the  strange  tapery  look  of  the  fingers  coming 
from  the  rough  close  mittens  he  wore. 

"That  Gabriel  Fanshawe  never  saw  England 
again,  nor  yet  his  son  Gabriel.  The  name  was 
retained  privily,  though  among  his  blood-kin  in 
Austria  or  Hungary  he  was  known  simply  as 
Gabriel  Zengro,  the  kin-name  of  the  patriarch 
who  had  adopted  him  after  the  crucifixion  of 
his  father. 

"  Long  before  his  grandson  was  a  man  well 
over  forty  years,  —  and  it  was  not  till  then  that 
the  third  Gabriel  visited  England  to  see  if  he 
could  claim  his  heritage,  —  the  lands  of  East- 
rigg,  the  house  and  hamlet  of  Fanshawe,  and 
Wester  Dallaway,  not  only  were  exempted  from 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  3T 

all  claim  upon  them  by  any  one  of  the  blood  of 
Gilbert  Fanshawe,  the  baronry  in  whose  name 
was  cancelled,  but  had,  in  turn,  passed  from  the 
hands  of  the  old  knight  of  Ravenshawe  into 
those  of  the  family  of  Francis,  with  whom  they 
remained  until  the  fall  of  the  Jacobite  dynasty, 
after  which  they  were  held  by  the  Hewsons, 
until  (sadly  diminished)  they  came  again  into 
the  ownership  of  a  Fanshawe,  with  my  purchase 
of  them. 

"  But  though  Gabriel  Zengro  the  third  found 
that  he  had  lost  his  title  and  northern  inherit- 
ance, he  was  able  to  recover  possession  of  Roe- 
hurst.  There  he  settled,  married,  and  had  two 
children  :  known  onl}-,  of  course,  by  his  English 
surname.  In  the  fiftieth  year  of  his  age  he  be- 
came markedly  unpopular  with  his  fellows.  He 
was  seen  at  times  to  frequent  a  rude  and  bar- 
baric sect  of  vagrants,  —  even  to  live  with  them  ; 
and  the  rumour  spread  that  his  foreign  wife 
was  really  one  of  these  very  aliens.  Then  he 
was  heard  to  say  wild  and  outrageous  things, 
such  as  might  well  hang  a  man  in  those  times. 
The  upshot  was  that  one  day  he  returned  to  his 
home  no  more.  His  body  was  found  transfixed 
to  a  leafless  tree  in  the  forest  beyond  Grailph 
Moss." 


32  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

"  Beyond  Roehurst,  you  mean?"  I  interrupted. 

"  No,  I  mean  what  I  say.  His  crucified  body 
was  found  in  the  forest  beyond  Grailph  Moss, 
in  that  part  of  it  called  The  Wood  o'  Wendray." 

"  That  is,"  I  interrupted  again,  "  where  the 
same  frightful  tragedy  had  been  enacted  in  the 
instance  of  the  victim's  grandfather  ? " 

"  Even  so.  But  though  Gabriel  Fanshawe 
had  been  lured  or  persuaded  or  kidnapped  out 
of  Hants,  he  was  certainly  alive  after  he  crossed 
the  Derwent,  for  a  huntsman  recognised  him 
among  his  people  one  day,  and  spat  on  the 
ground  to  the  north,  south,  east,  and  west. 
The  lord  of  Roehurst  disappeared  in  this  mys- 
terious fashion ;  and  none  of  his  neighbours  of 
the  south  learned  aught  of  his  doom,  but  only 
his  wife  knew,  the  tidings  having  been  conveyed 
to  her  I  know  not  how.  But  from  the  record 
she  put  in  writing,  it  is  clear  that  with  the  mes- 
sage had  come  a  summons,  perhaps  a  menace ; 
for,  together  with  her  two  children,  she  betook 
herself  to  the  greater  safety  of  London.  There 
the  girl  died,  calling  vainly,  and  uttering  strange 
words  in  a  tongue  no  one  spake  or  understood. 
But  the  boy  lived,  and  in  course  of  years  grew 
to  manhood,  and  on  the  death  of  his  mother 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  33 

went  to  reside  upon  his  own  lands.  Nor  was  it 
till  after  his'  marriage,  and  the  birth  of  a  son, 
that  he  read  the  record  his  mother  had  caused 
to  be^writ;  and  so  came  into  the  knowledge 
that  has  been  the  awe  and  terror  of  those  lin- 
eally descended  from  him. 

"  But  neither  he  nor  his  son  came  to  any  harm, 
save  the  common  doom  of  all.  Of  his  grand- 
son wild  things  were  said,  but  all  that  is  known 
certainly  is  that  he  hanged  himself  upon  the 
great  oak  in  front  of  Roehurst.  He  too,  how- 
ever, had  left  a  Gabriel  behind  him  as  his  suc- 
cessor: in  due  time  a  good  knight  and  learned 
man,  who  brought  up  his  only  child  worthily 
and  steadfastly.  Strange  that  the  heir  of  two 
such  loyal  and  excellent  men  should  prove  so 
feather-brained  as  to  love  the  woods  better  than 
the  streets,  and  the  wild  people  of  the  woods 
better  than  courtiers  and  scholars !  Stranger 
still  that  the  old  omens  should  recur,  till,  at  last, 
Gervase  Fanshawe,  after  an  awful  curse  upon 
all  of  his  blood,  and  terrifying  blasphemies, 
openly  set  fire  to  his  manor ;  and  himself,  with 
his  little  daughter  (though  the  young  Gabriel 
escaped),  was  consumed  in  the  flames. 

"  Thus,  with  tragic  alternations,  went  the  lives 
3 


34  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

of  my  forbears ;  till,  after  many  generations  of 
English  Fanshawes,  the  house  of  Roehurst 
came  to  an  end  with  Jasper  Fanshawe." 

At  that  moment  so  savage  an  onslaught  of 
wind  and  rain  was  made  upon  the  house,  so 
violent  a  quake  of  thunder  shook  the  walls, 
that  further  speech  was  impossible  for  the 
time.  But,  save  by  his  silence,  my  companion 
took  no  notice  of  the  tumult.  His  eyes  were 
very  large  and  wild,  and  stared  spell-bound 
upon  the  fire,  as  though  they  beheld  there  the 
tragic  issues  to  the  many  memories  or  thoughts 
which  tyrannised  his  brain. 

"  I  said  that  the  family  of  Roehurst,"  he 
resumed,  as  soon  as  comparative  quietude  had 
followed  that  wild  outburst,  though  the  wind 
moaned  and  screamed  round  the  gables  and 
among  the  old  chimneys,  and  the  rain  slashed 
against  the  window-pane  in  continuous  assault,  — 
"  I  said  that  the  family  of  Roehurst  came  to  an 
end  with  Jasper  Fanshawe.  This  was  at  the 
close  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Jasper  was 
the  last  of  his  race,  and,  the  rumour  ran,  one  of 
the  wildest.  Almost  on  the  eve  of  his  wedding 
it  transpired,  that  when,  in  his  youth,  he  had 
gone  away  with  and   lived   among  the  gypsy- 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  35 

people,  he  had,  as  most  if  not  all  of  his  pro- 
genitors, riiarried  a  Romany  girl.  The  union 
was  not  one  that  would  be  recognised  by  the 
Englfsh  law ;  but  the  authentic  news  of  it,  and 
the  confirmed  rumour  that  Squire  Fanshawe 
had  a  son  and  daughter  living,  brought  about 
a  duel  between  him  and  the  brother  of  his 
betrothed.  With  rash  folly  this  duel  was 
fought  in  the  woods,  and  witnessed  by  no  one 
save  the  gypsy  'messenger'  who  kept  the 
squire  always  in  view." 

"The  gypsy-messenger,  Fanshawe?" 
"  Yes.     That   is   the  name   sometimes   used. 
The  old  word  means  the  doom-watcher.     The 
latter  is  the  better  designation,  but    I  did  not 
care  to  use  it. 

"  Well,  my  ancestor  killed  the  man  Charles 
Norton.  Tlie  deed  was  the  worse  for  the 
survivor,  in  that  Norton  was  the  favorite  son 
of  the  most  influential  man  in  the  country-side. 
In  a  word,  the  slaying  was  called  murder,  and 
Jasper  Fanshawe  was  proclaimed.  His  sole 
chance  lay  with  his  blood-folk.  The  doom- 
watcher  came  into  Winchester,  and  testified  to 
what  he  had  seen,  while  hiding  among  the 
bracken   in   the  forest ;  but  his  evidence   was 


36  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

overborne,  and,  rightly  or  wrongly,  he  was  him- 
self clapped  into  prison  on  a  charge  of  rick- 
burning. 

"  No  trace  could  be  found  of  the  fugitive,  nor 
of  the  '  Egyptians '  with  whom  he  made  good 
his  escape.  The  large  encampment  in  Elvwick 
Wood  had  broken  up  into  sections,  which  had 
severally  dispersed,  and  all  had  vanished  almost 
as  swiftly  and  effectually  as  the  smoke  of  the 
camp-fires. 

"  Whatever  I  may  surmise,  I  do  not  know  for 
certain  the  manner  of  Jasper  Fanshawe's  death. 
His  son,  James,  lived  for  the  most  part  in 
Hungary;  at  other  times  in  the  wide-roaming 
lands  between  the  Caspian  and  the  Adriatic. 
He  took  in  preference  the  old  kin-name  of 
Heme,  which,  indeed,  his  father  had  adopted 
after  his  flight  from  England. 

"This  James  Heme  lived  to  an  old  age,  and 
became  one  of  the  '  elder  brothers '  of  his 
particular  tribal  branch.  His  son  Gabriel,  how- 
ever, left  his  kindred,  and  went  to  Vienna, 
where  he  studied  medicine.  Then,  while  still 
relatively  a  young  man,  he  gained  an  important 
post  at  Prague,  and  in  a  year  or  so  became 
what  would  here  be   called  a  magistrate.     He 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  37 

was  noted  for  his  severity  in  dealing  with  all 
vagrants,  but  especially  in  the  instance  of  any 
gypsy  delinquent.  At  this  time,  as  from  his 
early  Vienna  days,  he  was  known  as  Vansar, 
a  Romany  equivalent  for  Fanshawe.  On  three 
separate  occasions,  his  life  was  attempted, 
though  each  time  the  would-be  assassin  escaped. 
Gabriel  Vansar  was  not  the  man  to  be  intim- 
idated ;  indeed,  he  became  only  the  more 
stringent  and  tyrannical,  so  that  soon  there 
was  not  a  g>'psy  encampment  within  a  twenty- 
mile  radius  of  Prague.  In  his  thirty-sixth  year 
he  was  offered  a  medical  professorship  in 
Vienna.  In  that  city  he  met  a  Miss  Winstane, 
a  beautiful  English  girl,  the  sole  child  of  Edward 
Winstane,  a  Justice  of  the  Peace  for  South 
Hants,  and  Squire  of  Roehurst  Park  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  Parish  of  Elvwick.  Miss 
Winstane  loved  her  handsome  wooer,  and  the 
marriage  was  duly  solemnised.  Though  he 
spoke  with  a  slight  foreign  accent,  Mr.  Vansar 
knew  his  paternal  language  thoroughly ;  for 
though  'James  Heme'  had  ceased  to  be  Eng- 
lish in  all  else,  he  had  been  careful  to  teach 
his  son  his  native  tongue,  and  indeed  always  to 
speak  it  when  alone  with  him. 


38  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

"  Neither  Mr.  Winstane  nor  Winifred  Win- 
stane  ever  knew  that  Gabriel  Vansar  was 
Gabriel  Heme  the  Gypsy,  or,  in  turn,  that  he 
was  the  grandson  of  that  Jasper  Fanshawe 
whose  flight  from  Roehurst  had  been  followed 
by  the  confiscation  of  his  property,  and  its  dis- 
posal to  Edward  Winstane  the  elder. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Winstane  died  a  few 
months  after  the  marriage  of  his  daughter. 
Gabriel  Vansar  now  relinquished  his  post,  and 
went  to  England  to  live  the  life  of  a  country 
squire.  There  he  had  three  children  born  to 
him  :  two  sons  and  a  daughter.  Naomi  was  the 
youngest  by  several  years,  and  at  her  coming 
her  mother  went.  Of  the  two  sons,  Jasper  was 
the  elder,  I  the  younger." 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  39 


IV. 


Although  not  taken  wholly  by  surprise,  I 
exclaimed,  "  Vou,  Fanshawe  ?  "  —  adding  that 
indeed  the  chain  of  circumstances  was  remark- 
able. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Well,  when  my  brother  was 
twenty-one,  and  I  nineteen,  our  father  died.  He 
had  changed  much  since  our  mother's  decease, 
and  had  become  strangely  depressed  and  even 
morose.  There  was  adequate  explanation  of 
this  in  the  sealed  papers  which  he  left  to 
Jasper. 

"  But  now  I  must  diverge  for  a  moment. 
I  have  something  very  strange  to  confide  to 
you.  .  .  .  But  first  ;tell  me:  have  you  heard 
of  Kundry  ?  " 

"  Of  Kundry  ?  "  I  repeated,  bewildered. 

"  You  love  music,  I  know ;  and  I  thought 
you  might  have  heard  of  Kundry." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  know  now.  You  mean  the 
woman  in  Parsifal  ?  " 


.f 


40  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

"  Yes.  At  the  same  time,  Wagner  does  not 
give  the  true  legend.  He  did  not  even  know 
that  the  name  is  a  gypsy  one,  and  verj'  ancient. 
I  have  heard  that  some  people  think  it  imagi- 
nary, others,  that  it  is  old-time  Scandinavian. 
But  our  people,  the  Children  of  the  Wind, 
are  far  more  ancient  than  any  one  knows. 
We  had  earned  that  very  name  long  before 
the  Coming  of  the  Christ.  We  had,  however, 
another  name,  which  were  I  to  translate  lit- 
erally, would  be  something  like  '  The  Spawn 
of  Sheitan  : '  given  us  because  we  were  god- 
less, and  without  belief  in  any  after-life,  and 
were  kingless  and  homeless  and,  compared 
with  other  peoples,  lawless.  As  we  were 
then,  so  in  a  sense  we  are  now :  for  though 
we  do  not  deny  God,  we  neither  worship  him 
nor  propitiate  him  nor  fear  him ;  nor  have  we 
any  faith  in  a  future,  believing  that  with  the 
death  of  the  body  that  which  is  the  man  is  dead 
also ;  and  kingless  we  are,  save  for  the  com- 
mon overlords,  Time  and  Death;  and  home- 
less, except  for  the  curtains  of  the  forest  and 
the  dome  of  the  sky,  and  the  lamps  of  sun 
and  moon  ;  and,  even  as  the  wind  is  lawless 
and  the  sea,  so  also  are  we,  who  are  more  un- 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  41 

stable  than^he  one  and  more  vagrant  than  the 
other. 

"  N^early  nineteen  hundred  years  ago  a  tribe 
of  our  race,  *  the  first  tribe '  it  was  called,  be- 
cause it  claimed  to  be  the  original  stock,  was 
in  the  hill-country  beyond  Jerusalem. 

"  It  was  in  the  year  of  the  greatest  moment  to 
the  modern  world  :  the  year  of  the  death  of 
Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

''  I  need  not  repeat  even  in  the  briefest  way 
details  which  are  universally  familiar.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  some  of  our  people  were 
on  the  Hill  of  Calvary  on  the  Day  of  Anguish  ; 
that  among  them  was  a  beautiful  wanton 
called  Kundry;  and  that  as  the  Sufferer 
passed  to  His  martyrdom,  she  laughed  in  bitter 
mockery.  Turning  upon  her,  and  knowing  the 
darkness  of  her  unbelief  and  the  evil  of  which 
she  was  the  embodiment,  the  Christ  stopped 
and  looked  at  her. 

"'Hail,  O  King!'  she  laughed  mockingly. 
'  Vouchsafe  to  me,  thy  Sister,  a  sign  that  thou 
art  indeed  Lord  over  Fate;  but  thou  knowest 
thou  canst  not  do  this  thing,  and  goest  to  thy 
death!' 

"  Then  the  Christ  spake.     'Verily,  thou  shalt 


.f 


42  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

have  a  sign.  To  thee  and  thine  I  bequeath  the 
signs  of  my  Passion,  to  be  a  shame  and  horror 
among  thy  people,  forevermore.' 

"  Therewith  He  resumed  His  weary  way.  And 
Kundry  laughed,  and  followed.  Again,  during 
the  Agony  on  the  Cross,  she  laughed,  and 
again  at  the  last  bitter  cry  of  the  Son  of  God ; 
but  in  the  darkness  that  suddenly  came  upon 
the  land  she  laughed  no  more. 

"  From  that  day  the  woman  Kundry,  whom 
some  have  held  to  be  the  sister  of  the  Christ, 
was  accurst.  Even  among  her  own  people  she 
went  veiled.  Two  children  she  bore  to  the 
man  who  had  taken  her  to  his  tent :  children  of 
one  birth,  a  male  child  and  a  woman  child. 

"  They  were  in  their  seventh  year,  when,  in  a 
wild  Asian  land,  Kundry  came  out  among  her 
people  and  told  them  that  she,  the  Sister  of 
Christ,  had  come  to  deliver  them  this  message, 
that  out  of  the  offspring  of  her  womb  soon  or 
late  would  arise  one  who  would  be  their  Re- 
deemer, who  w^ould  be  the  Gypsy  Christ. 

"  When  the  young  men  and  maidens  of  her 
people  mocked,  the  elders  reprimanded  them, 
and  asked  Kundry  to  give  some  proof  that 
she  had  not  the  sun-fever   or  the  moon-mad- 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  43 

ness,  or  othej;  distemper  of  the  mind.  Where- 
upon the  woman  appalled  them  by  showing 
upon  ^er  hands  and  feet  the  stigmata  of  the 
Crucifixion. 

"  But,  after  the  first  wonder,  and  even  awe,  a 
great  horror  and  anger  arose  among  the  kindred. 
Three  days  they  gave  her  within  which  to  take 
back  that  which  she  had  said,  and  to  confess 
the  trickery  of  which  she  had  been  guilty,  or 
at  least  to  reveal  the  way  in  which  she  had 
mutilated  herself  and  so  healed  the  wounds. 
At  sundown,  on  the  third  day,  the  strange  and 
awful  signs  were  still  there;  nor  would  the 
woman  retract  that  which  she  had  said.  So 
they  scourged  her  with  thorny  switches,  and 
put  a  rough  crown  of  them  round  her  head,  and 
led  her  to  a  place  in  the  forest  where  there  was 
a  blasted  tree.  And  as  she  went  she  stopped 
once,  and  looked  to  see  whose  mocking  laugh 
made  her  last  hour  so  bitter;  and  lo,  it  was  the 
girl  whom  she  had  borne  in  her  womb.  Then 
they  crucified  her,  and  she  gave  up  the  ghost 
in  the  third  hour  before  the  dawn.  But  because 
that  the  children  were  so  young,  and  bore  no 
mark  of  the  Curse,  and  were  of  the  First  Line- 
age, they  were  spared." 


44  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

At  this  point  my  companion  ceased.  Lean- 
ing forward,  he  stared  into  the  fire  as  one  in 
a  vision.  A  long  silence  prevailed.  Outside, 
the  wind  wailed  wearily,  rising  at  times  into  a 
screaming  violence.  The  heavy  belching  roar 
of  the  thunder  crashed  upon  us  ever  and  again, 
and  even  in  the  firelit  room  with  its  closed 
curtains  the  lightning-glare  smote  the  eyes. 

Fanshawe  apparently  did  not  hear ;  perhaps 
he  did  not  see.  I  watched  him  intently,  the 
more  curiously  because  of  what  he  told  me  and 
what  I  inferred.  At  last  a  strange,  a  terrifying 
cry  startled  even  his  abstraction.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet,  and  looked  wildly  at  the  window. 

"  It  was  the  wind,"  I  said ;  "  I  heard  it  like 
that  a  little  ago,  though  not  so  loudly,  or  with 
so  weird  a  scream." 

Fanshawe  made  no  reply.  After  a  prolonged 
stare  at  the  curtained  window,  and  a  nervous 
twisting  and  untwisting  of  his  fingers,  he  seated 
himself  again.  Then,  almost  as  though  he  had 
not  broken  his  narration,  he  resumed  :  — 

"  The  son  and  daughter  of  Kundry  were 
spared  by  the  enemies  of  the  tribe  as  well  as  by 
their  kindred,  —  or  rather  they  escaped  the 
cruelty  of  the  one  as  well  as  the  fanaticism  of 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  45 

the  other;  foj;  the  tribe  was  almost  extermin- 
ated by  the  shores  of  the  Euphrates,  and  only 
Michaejl  and  Olah,  the  son  and  daughter  of 
Kundry,  with  a  few  fellow-fugitives,  reached  a 
section  of  their  race  temporarily  settled  some 
fifty  miles  to  the  north. 

"  There  '  the  laughing  girl,'  as  Olah  was  called, 
partly  in  memory  of  her  mother,  partly  because 
of  her  own  laughter  at  her  mother's  death- 
faring,  and  partly  because  of  the  musical  mock- 
ery wherewith  she  angered  and  delighted  the 
tribesmen,  brought  unhappiness  and  ruin  among 
'the  rulers.'  There  were  three  brothers  of 
the  ancient  race,  and  each  came  to  disaster  and 
death  through  Olah.  But  through  their  death, 
Michael  came  to  be  what  you  would  call  the 
Prince  of  the  Children  of  the  Wind.  There 
was  but  one  evil  deed  recorded  against  him : 
the  murder  of  his  sister.  But  —  so  the  ancient 
chronicle  goes  —  this  act  was  not  out  of  coward- 
ice or  malice ;  it  was  to  remove  the  curse  of 
the  mother,  not  only  from  those  of  her  blood, 
but  from  the  race.  The  deed  was  done  in  the 
year  when  Michael's  wife  bore  him  their  second 
child,  a  girl.  Before  Olah's  death,  —  and  she 
died  in  the  same  way  as  her  mother,  —  she  took 


46  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

the  little  Sampa  in  her  arms,  and  breathed 
her  life  into  it.  On  the  day  of  the  crucifixion, 
the  child  turned  in  her  sleep,  in  her  mother's 
arms,  and  laughed  as  child  never  laughed 
before. 

"  The  story  thereafter  is  a  long  one.  It  is  all 
in  the  secret  record  of  our  people,  though 
known  to  a  few  only.  I  could  tell  it  all  to  you, 
with  every  name  and  every  happening,  but  this 
would  serve  no  purpose  to-niglit.  Suffice  it, 
that  link  by  link  the  chain  is  unbroken  from 
Michael  and  Sampa,  the  children  of  Michael, 
brother  of  Olah,  the  son  and  daughter  of 
Kundry  who  laughed  at  the  Christ  on  Calvary, 
even  unto  the  three  offspring  of  Gabriel  Fan- 
shawe,  who  was  called  Vansar,  and  was  of  the 
tribe  of  the  Heron." 

Could  it  be,  I  wondered,  as  I  looked  intently 
at  the  speaker,  that  this  man  before  me  was  the 
lineal  descendant  of  that  Kundry  -n'ho  had 
laughed  at  Christ;  that  he  was  the  inheritor  of 
the  Curse  ;  and  that  for  him,  perhaps,  as  for  so 
many  of  his  race,  the  ancestral  doom  was 
imminent  ?  With  an  effort  I  conquered  the 
superstitious  awe  which  I  realised  had  come 
upon  me. 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  47 

"Do  you  mean  this  thing,"  I  said  slowly, 
"  do  you  meaA  that  you,  James  Fanshawe,  are 
the  direct  descendant  of  Kundry,  and  that  the 
Curse  HVes,  and  that  you  or  some  one  of  your 
blood,  whether  of  this  or  a  later  generation, 
must  '  dree  the  weird '  even  as  your  forbears 
have  done  ?  " 

"Even  so:  I  am  as  I  say;  and  the  Curse 
lives  ;  and  no  man  can  evade  the  doom  that  is 
nigh  two  thousand  years  old." 

I  waited  a  few  minutes,  pondering  what  best 
to  say.     Then  I  spoke. 

"The  story  is  a  strange  and  terrible  one, 
Fanshawe.  But  even  if  exactly  as  you  have 
told  it,  surely  there  is  no  logical  necessity  why 
you  or  your  brother  or  sister  should  inherit  the 
Curse.  There  has,  by  your  own  admission, 
been  frequent-  admixture  of  a  foreign  and 
Christian  strain  in  your  lineage.  Your  father 
was,  to  all  practical  intents,  no  more  a  gypsy 
than  I  am.  He  married  an  English  girl,  and 
li'-ed  the  life  of  a  country  squire,  and  was  no 
different  from  his  kind  except  in  his  perhaps  ex- 
aggerated bitterness  against  gypsies,  —  though, 
by  the  way,  not  as  different  in  this  respect 
either,  for  the  country  gentleman  loveth  not  the 


48  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

vagrant.  In  a  word,  he  himself,  with  all  his 
knowledge  of  the  past,  would  have  laughed  at 
your  superstitious  application  of  the  legend." 

Fanshawe  turned  upon  me  his  great  luminous 
eyes,  aflame  with  the  fire  of  despair.  I  could 
see  that  he  was  in  passionate  earnest. 

'■'■  My  sister  might  have  laughed,"  he  said  in  a 
voice  so  low  as  almost  to  be  a  whisper,  but  with 
significant  emphasis:  ";;«y  sister  might  have 
laughed,  not  my  father." 

"Why,  Fanshawe,"  I  exclaimed,  startled, 
"  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  your  sister  is  — 
is  —  " 

"  A  daughter  of  Kundry." 

I  received  the  remark  in  silence.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  think,  much  less  what  to  say. 
My  nerves,  too,  were  affected  by  the  electric 
air,  the  ever-recurrent  surge  and  tumult  of  the 
thunderstorm ;  and  I  felt  bewildered  by  what 
I  heard,  by  what,  despite  its  improbability,  I 
knew  that  I  believed.  At  last  I  asked  him  to 
resume,  saying  I  knew  he  had  not  ended  what 
he  had  set  himself  to  tell  me. 

"  No,  I  have  not  ended. 

"  From  what  I  have  told  you,  you  will  have 
gathered  that  the  Curse  does  not  show  itself  in 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  49 

every  generation,  but  in  the  third.  I  cannot 
say  that  the  death  record  is  unvarj'ing,  for  I  do 
not  know ;  nor  has  it  been  possible  to  trace 
every  particular  of  a  remote  ancestry.  But 
here  is  a  strange  thing :  that  in  all  but  three  in- 
stances, so  far  as  known,  no  son  or  daughter  of 
Kundry  has  ever  had  more  than  two  children. 
From  generation  to  generation  that  bitter  laugh 
has  never  lapsed.  From  generation  to  genera- 
tion it  has  brought  about  disaster  and  shame. 
Many,  even  as  I  have  done,  have  dreamed  that 
the  Curse  might  be  expiated  or  outlived ;  but  it 
may  well  be  that  even  as  in  every  generation 
'  the  laughing  girl '  who  is  of  the  race  of  Kundry 
mocks  God,  so  in  every  third  generation,  till 
the  Christ  come  again  or  the  world  be  no  more, 
there  may  be  the  tragedy  of  my  ancestral  woe. 

"  All  this,  rny  father  knew  ere  he  died.  He 
had  meant  to  carry  the  secret  to  the  grave,  and 
by  many  precautions  believed  he  had  safe- 
guarded his  children  from  contact  with  the 
people  he  hated  and  dreaded,  though  he  was  of 
them  himself. 

"  About  the  time  when  my  father's  morose  and 
brooding  manner  was  first  noted,  my  brother 
Jasper    had    fallen    ill.     It   was   a   mysterious 

4 


50  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

trouble,  and  no  doctor  could  name  the  malady. 
Once,  only,  I  saw  my  father  furious,  —  on  the 
day  when  he  learned  that  there  was  an  encamp- 
ment of  gypsies  in  Elvvvick  Woods,  and  that 
Jasper,  who  was  as  impassioned  in  religion  as 
Saint  Francis  himself,  had  been  among  the 
wandering  people,  striving  to  win  them  to  the 
Brotherhood  of  Christ.  Our  father  did  not 
know  that  I  and  my  sister  Naomi  had  already 
discovered  the  camp,  and  had  been  fascinated 
by  the  dark  people  and  their  way  of  life  and 
the  forest  freedom,  —  so  that  we  could  think  of 
little  else,  and  yearned  to  be  in  the  greenwood, 
even  as  a  bird  to  spread  its  wings  beyond  the 
bars  of  its  cage. 

"  It  must  have  been  immediately  after  this  that 
my  father  made  the  discovery  which  changed 
him  from  one  man  to  another.  Neither  Naomi 
nor  I  knew  aught  of  it  at  the  time,  though  we 
were  aware  that  something  dire  had  happened, 
something  of  awe,  of  dread. 

"  For  when  Jasper  rose  from  his  bed  of  sickness 
there  was  upon  his  feet  and  upon  his  hands  the 
purple  bruise  and  ruddy  cicatrix  of  the  great 
nails  of  the  Crucifixion." 

For  a  few   moments  Fanshawe  paused,  and 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  51 

drew  a  pain^iil,  labored  breath,  as  of  a  man  in 
pain  or  a  great  weakness. 

"  A|ter  our  father's  death,  Jasper  shut  himself 
up  in  his  room,  and  would  see  no  one.  I  used 
to  creep  along  the  passage  at  dusk,  and  listen 
to  the  wild  incoherences  of  his  prayers.  We, 
Naomi  and  I,  were  very  dismal,  and  it  was  with 
relief  when,  one  evening,  we  fled  into  the  forest, 
and  joined  our  friends,  more  mysterious  and  al- 
luring than  ever  because  of  the  terrifying  things 
which  had  been  said  of  them  by  him  who  was 
now  dead. 

"  Our  shortest  way  was  by  Elvwick  churchyard. 
Perhaps  but  for  this  we  would  not  have  thought 
of  looking  at  our  father's  grave  again:  for  we 
did  not  mean  to  return  to  Roehurst.  Hand  in 
hand,  however,  we  stole  to  the  spot  we  had  al- 
ready ceased  to  regard  with  the  first  over- 
whelming awe. 

"The  shock  was  greater  than  even  that  of 
his  death  had  been,  for  we  saw  that  the  grave 
had  been  rifled.  The  coffin  was  visible,  but  the 
lid  had  been  forced  open.  There  was  no  corpse 
within.  Almost  too  dazed  to  be  frightened,  it 
was  some  time  before  I  realised  that  the  out- 
rage must  have  been  committed  that  very  night ; 


52  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

for  the  upturned  earth  had  retained  its  fresh 
smell,  an  axe  was  lying  near  the  grave,  and 
there  were  imprints  of  feet  in  the  damp  soil. 

"  The  idea  flashed  across  my  mind  that  our 
father  had  somehow  come  to  life  again,  —  per- 
haps, I  thought,  he  knew  of  our  intended  flight 
and  had  gone  back  to  Roehurst  to  frustrate  it, — 
and  I  could  scarce  move  with  terror.  Naomi 
laughed,  a  strange  mirthless  laugh  that  made  me 
turn  as  though  to  strike  her.  Then,  shivering 
and  sobbing,  we  crawled  away.  I  think  we  were 
about  to  return  home,  when  a  tall  figure  arose, 
called  us  by  our  names,  and  invited  us  to  come 
and  see  the  merry  '  Dance  of  the  Wolves '  around 
the  camp-fire.  I  told  the  man  —  Mat  Lee,  I  re- 
member his  name  was  —  what  had  happened. 
To  my  surprise  he  did  not  appear  shocked  or 
frightened.  He  was  silent  for  a  little ;  then  in  a 
whisper  he  urged  us  to  run  with  him  at  once, 
lest  we  should  meet  the  dead  man  on  his  way 
back  from  the  house  to  the  grave. 

"That  is  how  my  sister  and  I  went  to  live 
among  our  unknown  kindred.  The  very  next 
day,  at  dawn,  the  camp  was  lifted;  a  week 
thence  we  were  in  Brittany.  It  was  not  till  long 
afterwards  I  learned  that  it  was  the  tribesmen 


^  The  Gypsy  Christ.  53 

who  had  desecrated  my  father's  grave.  '  He 
had  been  a  renegade,  and  the  enemy  of  his 
race,'  they  said,  'and  it  was  only  right  that 
though  he  had  lived  in  honor  he  should  after- 
wards be  flung  back  to  earth  as  a  dead  dog  is 
hurled  among  the  bramble  or  gorse.' 

"  Once,  only,  I  saw  my  brother  again.  I  know 
that  he  did  his  best  for  us.  He  traced  our 
flight,  and  kept  in  touch  with  us.  A  'com- 
mando' was  sent  to  him,  forbidding  him  to 
come  near  us,  or  even  to  go  among  his  kindred 
anywhere.  I  was  told  I  was  free  to  go  and 
come  as  I  liked,  and  that  I  had  money  always 
at  my  command.  Naomi,  however,  had  to 
abide  with  the  tribe.  For  three  years  I  roamed 
throughout  the  lands  east  of  Saxony  and  Ba- 
varia, and  as  far  south  as  Dalmatia  and  Rou- 
mania.  I  had  been  well  educated,  and  was  a 
student ;  and  I  learned  much,  though  in  my  own 
desultory  fashion. 

"  Then  tidings  reached  me  that  Jasper  had  dis- 
appeared. It  was  said  that  he  had  been  seen 
in  the  shore-woods  of  Lymington,  on  the  So- 
lent; and  that  he  had  been  drowned,  while 
bathing  or  boating.  An  upturned  boat  had 
been  discovered,  in  which  he  had  certainly  been 


54  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

that  forenoon,  for  he  had  come  in  it  from  Yar- 
mouth in  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

"  I  went  to  England,  and  in  due  time  entered 
into  possession  of  the  family  property.  At  first 
(and  this  was  when  we  met  in  Surrey),  I 
thought  of  settling  there,  for  a  time.  At  last, 
however,  I  decided  to  dispose  of  Roehurst,  and 
realise  everything  that  had  come  to  me ;  and  I 
had  done  this,  and  was  about  to  leave  for  east- 
ern Europe  when  a  letter  reached  me  from 
Derbyshire.  //  was  in  my  brother's  handwrit- 
ing. 

"  Bewildered,  distraught,  and  angry,  I  read  this 
strange  and  unlooked-for  communication.  The 
writer  was  alive,  and  begged  me  to  come  and 
save  him  from  the  enmity  of  the  kindred  with 
whom  he  had  at  the  end  cast  in  his  lot.  To 
narrate  briefly  what  might  well  be  told  with 
lengthy  and  surprising  detail,  I  reached  Shef- 
field, and  thence  set  out  across  the  wild  and 
remote  country  (to  me  at  that  time  quite  un- 
known, even  by  repute)  which  lies  to  the  north 
of  Dallaway  Moor  and  Grailph  Moss.  At  the 
verge  of  the  great  forest  I  was  met  by  a  gypsy 
guide.  Late  that  night  we  reached  the  camp. 
From  an  hour  after  my  arrival  till  the  last  hour 


^  The  Gypsy  Christ.  55 

of  the  night  I  was  alone  with  my  brother.  He 
told  me  all  that  I  have  told  you,  and  much  else 
beside ;  also  where  his  own  and  our  father's 
papers  were  to  be  found.  Finally,  he  declared 
that  the  Curse  died  with  himself.  He  had  had 
this  revealed  to  him  in  a  vision  ;  besides,  other 
circumstances,  with  which  I  need  not  weary 
you,  pointed  to  this  end.  He  had  sworn  this 
to  the  tribesmen,  and  they  had  consented  to 
forego  the  manner  of  his  death,  if  he  would 
further  renounce  all  claim  to  be  the  Gypsy 
Christ.  The  very  name  gave  them  a  sense  of 
horror  and  anger;  his  fervent  words  of  exhorta- 
tion had  made  them  sullen,  and  at  last  resentful ; 
and,  over  and  above  this,  there  was  the  vague 
race-legend'  that,  whenever  the  Gypsy  Christ 
should  come,  the  days  of  the  Children  of  the 
Wind  would  be  numbered,  and  they  would 
dwindle  away  like  the  leaves  in  October. 

"  An  hour  before  dawn,  three  of  the  kindred 
entered  the  tent.  They  put  a  bandage  about 
my  eyes,  and  secured  my  arms.  I  heard  them 
lift  Jasper,  and  put  him  upon  a  hurdle  of  larch- 
boughs.  In  the  chill  air  we  went  silently  forth. 
In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  came  to  a 
standstill  upon  a  rising  ground.     I  heard  Ja.sper 


56  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

repeat  in  a  husky  voice  that  he  was  not  worthy 
to  be  the  Christ;  that  he  was  not  the  Christ; 
and  that  he  prayed  that  with  him  might  pass 
away  forever  the  curse  of  Kundry. 

"  There  was  a  brief  silence  after  that;  then  a 
rustling  sound  in  the  air ;  then,  after  an  interval, 
a  thud,  thud,  thudding,  followed  by  a  splash. 

"  '  No  man  ever  comes  back  from  the  bowels 
of  the  lead-mine,  O  James,  of  the  tribe  of  the 
Heron,  of  the  race  of  Kundry,'  whispered  a 
voice  in  my  ear. 

"When,  an  hour  later,  the  bandage  was  taken 
from  my  eyes,  I  was  on  the  moor  just  above  the 
House  o'  Fanshawe.  A  boy  was  beside  me, 
his  face  covered  with  a  slouch  hat.  In  a  few 
words,  in  our  ancient  language,  he  told  me  that 
I  was  by  the  village  of  Eastrigg,  and  that  twenty 
miles  south  of  me  lay  Pothering  Dale,  whence 
I  could  easily  go  in  any  direction ;  any^vhere, 
he  added  significantly,  where  the  tongue  can  be 
silent  and  the  memory  dead. 

"  I  made  no  inquiries  about  the  matter  I  have 
told  you.  Fortunately  I  had  informed  no  one 
of  the  letter  I  had  received.  This  letter  I 
burned.  But  I  ran  a  great  risk  by  returning  a 
few  days  later  to  Eastrigg.     The  reason  was 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  57 

this:  I  had  learned,  from  the  papers  to  which 
my  brother  had  alluded,  the  whole  story  of  our 
doomed  race,  the  race  of  Kundry;  and  I  de- 
cided to  try  one  more  desperate  hazard  against 
Fate,  for  I  could  not  be  sure  that  Jasper's  death 
would  remove  the  Curse.  In  a  word,  I  decided 
to  make  my  home  in  this  place  where  my  an- 
cestor and  brother  suffered  such  cruel  deaths, 
and  to  die  here ;  for  I  found  in  my  papers  an 
ancient  prophecy,  both  in  English  and  Romany, 
to  the  effect  that  when  a  woman  of  the  race  of 
Kundry  would  voluntarily  sacrifice  herself  at 
the  Hill  of  Calvary,  or  when  a  man  of  the  race 
of  Kundry  would  live  and  die  at  the  place  where 
one  of  his  kindred  had  suffered  for  the  Curse, 
the  doom  might  be  removed. 

"  Thus  it  was  that  I  became  possessor  of  this 
strange  'House  o'  Fanshawe.'  But  I  had 
something  to  do   before    I    settled  here. 

"  When  everything  that  had  to  be  done  was 
done,  I  went  abroad  to  seek  my  kindred,  and 
more  particularly  my  sister  Naomi.  Perhaps 
you  guess  iny  object.  I  had  more  hope  of 
success,  from  the  circumstance  that  Naomi  was 
of  a  passionately  enthusiastic  nature  ;  and  that, 
of  late,  she  had  even  dreamed  of  leaving  her 


58  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

people  (for  one  strain  in  her  fought  against  the 
other),  to  enter  a  Sisterhood  of  Mercy. 

"  But  my  people  had  gone,  and  the  clues  were 
already  old  and  complicated.     I  went   through 
Hungary,     across     Transylvania,     hither    and 
thither  in  Roumania,  and  from  end  to   end  in 
Dalmatia.     Everywhere  I    was   on   their  track, 
but  the  trail  was   confused.     It  was  not   till  I 
had  gained   the    Bavarian   highlands   that   the 
conclusion  was  forced   upon   me    I  was   being 
misled.    This  became  a  certainty  after  I  had 
followed  a  sure  trail  through  Suabia  and  so  to 
the  Lands  of  the  Moselle.     At  Treves,  I  was 
directed  southward,  and  went  blindly  on  a  false 
track  that  led  through  southern  France  towards 
the  Basque  provinces  ;  but  at  last,  at  a  place 
in  Provence  called  Aigues-Mortes,  I  met  a  life- 
brother  (that  is,  one  whose  life  had  been  saved 
when   otherwise  it  would  have  been  lost,   and 
who   has  vowed  his  life-service  to  his  saviour, 
whenever  required),  whom  I  put  upon  his  oath. 
He  told  me  that  the   Zengri,  the  Hemes,  and 
two  other  tribes  were  not  in  southern  Europe 
at   all,   but   in    England.     I  had   hit   upon  the 
right  trail  between  Heidelberg  and  the  Mosel, 
but,  when  almost  upon  my  people  at  Treves, 


^    The  Gypsy  Christ.  59 

had  been  skilfully  diverted.  And  the  reason 
for'' this  was  the  extraordinary  ascendancy  of 
my  sister.  My  heart  sank  as  I  heard  this  tid- 
ing. I  feared  that  the  Curse  had  already  shown 
itself;  but,  my  informant  assured  me,  I  was 
wrong  in  this  surmise.  It  was  merely  that 
Naomi  had  fascinated  the  tribes-folk,  and,  parti- 
cularly since  the  death  of  the  old  Peter  Zengro, 
had  become  practically  a  queen.  Her  word  was 
law. 

"  Of  course  I  could  not  tell  the  exact  reason 
why  she  wished  to  evade  me.  Possibly  she 
feared  I  might  resent  her  ascendancy,  and  try 
to  usurp  her  ;  possibly  she  had  some  reason  to 
fear  that  the  always  latent  enmity  against  any 
of  the  racfe  of  Kundry  would  be  directed  against 
me.  As  likely  as  not,  she  had  several  schemes 
to  fulfil,  all  or  even  one  of  which  might  be 
frustrated  by  my  appearance  on  the  scene. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  decided  to  travel  straight  to 
England,  and,  as  soon  as  practicable,  gain  an 
interview  with  Naomi. 

"  For  some  weeks  after  I  reached  this  country 
I  was  again  purposely  misled.  Yet  from  one 
thing  and  another  I  became  more  and  more 
anxious  to  meet  Naomi  soon.    Strange  rumours 


6o  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

were  abroad.  At  Ringwood  in  the  New  Forest, 
I  overheard  some  words  by  the  camp-fire  (when 
I  was  supposed  to  be  asleep)  which  made  my 
heart  shrink. 

"  Once  again  I  lost  all  clue.  Then  it  was  that 
I  remembered  Nathan  Lee,  —  an  intimate  friend 
of  yours  as  well  as  of  mine,  —  who,  because  of 
his  great  love  for  his  wife,  had  sworn  never  to 
leave  the  neighborhood  of  Glory  Woods,  where 
she  was  buried.  I  travelled  with  all  speed  to 
Dorking.  From  Lee  I  learned  what  I  wanted 
to  know.  By  a  strange  fatality,  Naomi  had 
made  her  headquarters  in  the  Wood  o'  Wen- 
dray,  beyond  Eastrigg.  But  was  it  a  blind 
fatality?  That  was  what  troubled  and  per 
turbed  me.  Why  had  she,  why  had  our  par- 
ticular tribe,  settled  at  the  accursed  spot  where 
Jasper  Fanshawe  had  met  his  fate  ! 

"  It  was  at  this  time  that  I  met  you  in  Glory 
Woods.  The  next  day  I  was  back  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Elvwick,  and  had  arranged  with  Robert 
Hoare,  the  late  gardener  at  Roehurst,  and  his 
wife,  to  come  and  keep  house  and  generally 
look  after  me,  at  Eastrigg  Manor. 

"  Almost  every  day  after  I  was  settled  I  rode 
over  to  the  Wood  o'  Wendray;  but  the  ban 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  6i 

was  upon  me,  and  I  was  warned  not  to  ap- 
proach the  camp.  Thrice  I  set  the  ban  at 
defiance,  and  strode  into  the  camp,  but  on  no 
occasion  saw  any  sign  of  Naomi.  This  was 
the  more  strange,  as,  on  the  third  time,  I  ar- 
rived at  sunset,  'the  hour  of  the  smoke,'  when 
the  gjpsies  meet  round  the  fire  to  talk  and 
smoke  and  break  their  long  day-fast.  It  was 
after  this  third  visit  I  was  formally  warned  that 
my  next  defiance  of  the  ban  would  be  my  last. 
I  knew  this  to  be  no  idle  threat.  Thereafter  I 
had  to  be  more  cautious.  I  no  longer  rode 
across  the  moor ;  but,  either  in  the  morning 
twilight  or  in  the  late  afternoon,  wandered  here 
and  there  across  the  uplands :  sometimes  by 
the  deserted  lead-mines,  sometimes  by  the 
green  pool,  sometimes  even  within  the  out- 
skirts of  the  Wood  o'  Wendray. 

"  I  met  you  in  Glory  Woods  in  the  spring,  and 
now  it  is  autumn.  It  was  exactly  midway  in 
this  time  that  I  learned  a  dreadful  thing. 

"  One  day  a  message  came  to  me,  in  Naomi's 
writing,  to  be  at  the  green  pool  beyond  Dal- 
laway  mine  at  dawn  on  the  morrow. 

"  I  was  there,  of  course.  The  morning  was 
raw   and  misty.     Even  at  the   margin   of  the 


62  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

Pool  I  could  not  see  the  further  side.  Sud- 
denly, however,  I  heard  whispered  voices,  and 
the  trampling  of  feet.  I  called,  and  was  at  once 
answered.  I  was  bidden  not  to  stir  from  where 
I  was.  The  voice  was  that  of  Naomi,  but  with 
a  note  in  it  I  had  never  heard  before. 

"  '  Is  that  you,  James  Fanshawe,  of  the  tribe 
of  the  Heron,  of  the  race  of  Kundry.?' 

"  '  It  is  I,  Naomi,  daughter  of  Gabriel.  It  is 
I,  your  blood-brother.' 

"'Then  know  this  thing.  She  whom  you 
wedded  secretly,  Sanpriella  Zengro,  is  dead.' 

"  I  gave  a  cry  of  pain.  ...  I  have  not  told 
you  that,  during  my  last  year  with  my  people, 
I  loved  Sanpriella,  the  daughter  of  Alexander 
Zengro,  the  brother  of  Peter  Zengro,  of  the 
First  Tribe.  But  Alexander  Zengro  feared  and 
hated  any  of  the  race  of  Kundry;  so  we  loved 
secretly.  This  was  one  reason  why  I  was  so 
eager  to  find  my  people  again;  for  Naomi  was 
not,  as  you  may  have  supposed,  my  one  quest. 
I  knew  that  Sanpriella  was  with  child,  and  I 
longed  to  make  her  my  wife  before  all  men. 

" '  Is  it  so  .i"  I  cried  in  a  shaking  voice,  be- 
cause of  my  sore  pain  ;  '  is  it  so,  upon  the  oath 
of  the  crossed  sticks  and  the  hidden  way?  ' 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  63 

" '  I  say  it.  May  tree  fall  on  me,  and  water 
gain'upon  me,  and  the  falling  star  light  on  me, 
if  I  speak  not  truth.  Sanpriella  is  dead.  She 
lies  in  the  wood  of  Heiligenberg,  beyond  the 
Neckar.  And  now  listen  to  the  doom,  thou  son 
of  Kundrj'.' 

"My  heart  leapt  at  these  ominous  words, 
doubly  ominous  and  strange  coming  from  one 
of  my  own  blood. 

" '  Unto  Sanpriella  were  born  twin  children,  a 
boy  and  a  girl.  The  girl  lives,  though  you 
shall  never  see  her.  She  is  in  a  far  land  from 
here,  and  the  lines  of  her  life  are  already  known. 
The  boy  .  .  .  the  boy  is  .  .  .  dead. 

" '  But  know  this  thing,  James  my  blood- 
brother.  The  doom  of  Kundry  was  upon  him. 
His  mother  hid  the  thing,  but  after  her  death 
the  Curse  was  visible.  Upon  his  hands  were  the 
bruised  wounds  of  the  nails  of  the  Crucifixion.' 

"  With  a  shuddering  cry  I  sank  to  my  knees. 
Wildly  I  prayed,  implored  Naomi  to  say  it  was 
not  true;  that  it  was  hearsay;  that  some 
natural  cause  had  been  mistaken  for  this 
horrible  mystery. 

"  '  Therefore,'  she  resumed  unmoved,  '  the 
ban  is  upon  you  also.     Take  heed  lest  a  worse 


64  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

thing  befall  you.  It  will  be  well  if  you  leave 
this  place  where  you  live,  and  forever.  Be  a 
wanderer  upon  the  face  of  the  earth ;  it  will  be 
for  you  safer  so :  but  avoid  the  trail  of  the 
Children  of  the  Wind  as  you  would  the  pesti- 
lence.    And  now  — farewell ! ' 

"  *  My  child  lives  —  my  daughter  lives  ! '  I 
cried  despairingly. 

"  There  was  a  long  silence.  I  called  again 
and  again,  but  met  with  no  response.  Thick 
as  the  mist  was,  I  raced  round  the  pool  like  a 
greyhound.  There  was  no  one  near.  I  ran 
out  upon  the  moor,  but  there  I  was  like  a  dere- 
lict boat  in  wide  ocean  in  a  dense  fog.  I  could 
see  nothing,  hear  nothing.  All  that  day  the 
mist  hung  impermeable ;  all  that  day  I  abode 
where  I  was." 

Once  more  a  long  silence  fell  upon  Fanshawe. 
Outside,  the  shrieking  of  the  wind  was  appall- 
ing. The  rain  slashed  against  the  house  as 
though  all  the  sluices  of  the  thunderstorm  were 
concentred  there.  The  thunder  was  no  longer 
overhead,  but  a  raucous  blast  —  distinct  from 
the  blind,  furious  gale  —  moved  to  and  fro  like 
a  beast  of  prey.       I   was  overcome    by  the 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  65 

strange  and  terrible  tale  I  had  listened  to. 
Thrti  and  there,  to  that  wild  accompaniment, 
it  all  seemed  deadly  true,  and  as  inevitable  as 
Destiny. 

With  an  abrupt  gesture,  Fanshawe  suddenly 
resumed :  — 

"  On  the  eve  of  that  day  I  walked  swiftly 
across  the  moor.  The  sun  was  almost  on  the 
horizon  as  I  reached  the  easter  edge  of 
Grailph  Moss.  Suddenly,  I  stopped  as  one 
changed  into  stone.  Black  against  the  sunset- 
light  I  saw  a  tall  figure  stand :  with  head 
thrown  back,  and  arms  wide  outstretched  from 
the  sides.  Was  it  a  vision  of  the  Christ.? 
That  was  the  thought  which  came  to  me. 
Then  the  figure  disappeared,  absorbed  in  the 
mist  over  Grailph  Moss.  I  turned  and  went 
home.     It  was  Naomi  I  had  seen. 

"  The  next  evening  I  was  in  the  same  place, 
at  the  same  hour. 

"Again  I  saw  Naomi,  in  that  sunflame  Cruci- 
fixion. Once  more  she  disappeared,  and  across 
the  Moss.  I  knew  of  no  encampment  there, 
but  unquestionably  she  had  moved  swiftly  west- 
ward. 

"  On  the   third  afternoon  I  was  there  again, 

5 


66  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

earlier.  This  time  I  had  with  me  my  white 
bloodhound.  We  crouched  in  good  hiding  till 
Naomi  passed.  I  made  Grailph  sniff  her  track. 
When  the  sun  set,  she  disappeared  as  before. 
I  held  Grailph  in  leash,  and  followed  swiftly. 
In  less  than  an  hour  I  came  upon  her.  She 
was  standing  in  a  waste  place,  near  the  centre 
of  a  broken  circle  of  tall  slabs.  These  were 
the  Druidic  Stones,  known  almost  to  none  save 
the  most  daring  explorers  of  the  Moss,  for  they 
are  in  a  region  beset  with  quagmires. 

"  She  was  speaking,  with  outstretched  arms, 
as  if  in  prayer.  There  was  no  one  visible. 
She  was,  I  saw,  in  a  trance,  or  ecstasy. 

"  When,  suddenly,  she  descried  me,  she  leapt 
like  a  deer  on  to  a  narrow  dry  path  beyond  the 
stones.  She  would  certainly  have  evaded  me 
but  for  Grailph.  The  hound  slid  beyond  like 
running  water  in  a  rapid.  In  less  than  a  minute 
he  had  headed  her  off. 

"When  I  came  up  with  her,  I  expected  either 
furious  denunciation,  or  at  least  a  summary 
command  that  I  should  return  straightway. 
She  did  no  more  than  look  at  me  intently,  how. 
ever.  She  had  already  forgotten  what  had  lain 
between  us.    She  was  possessed. 


The  Gypsy  Christ.  67 

^** Naomi,''  I  said,  simply. 

i^  '  I  am  Naomi,  blessed  among  women.' 

"  I  stared,  perplexed. 

" '  Why  do  you  follow  me  here  to  spy  me 
out?  Beware  lest  God  strike  thee  for  thy 
blasphemy.' 

"  '  My  blasphemy,  Naomi  ?  ' 

" '  Even  so.  I  come  here  to  meet  the  Spirit 
of  God.' 

" '  Tell  me,  my  sister,  is  this  true  what  I  have 
heard:  that  you  are  with  child.'" 

"  Her  eyes  flamed  upon  me.  But  her  voice 
was  cold  and  quiet  as  she  replied,  — 

"  It  is  true.  The  Lord  hath  wrought  upon  me 
a  miracle.  I  have  immaculately  conceived,  and 
the  child, I  shall  bear  will  be  the  Gypsy  Christ, 
—  the  long  dreamed-of,  the  long  waited-for 
second  Christ.' 

" '  This  is  madness.  Come  with  me ;  come 
home  with  me,  Naomi.' 

"  '  The  green  earth  is  my  home  ;  and  the  wind 
is  my  brother,  and  the  dust  my  sister.' 

"'Come!' 

"  Then  in  a  moment  her  whole  look  and  mien 
changed.  The  flame  that  was  in  her  eyes 
seemed   to  come   from  her  very  body.       Her 


68  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

voice  now  was  loud,  raucous,  imperious.  The 
hound  whined,  and  sidled  to  my  feet. 

" '  I  am  the  Sister  of  Jesus,  I  am  no  other  than 
Kundry,  deathless  in  my  woe  until  these  last 
days.  I  am  the  Mother  of  the  Christ  that  is  to 
be.  And  you,  you,  son  of  my  mother's  womb, 
you  are  ordained  to  be  my  prophet !  Go  forth 
even  now :  go  unto  our  people  in  the  woods : 
declare,  declare,  declare,  to  them,  to  all,  that 
the  Gypsy  Christ  cometh  at  last ! ' 

"  I  was  shocked,  terrified  even.  But  after  a 
throbbing  silence,  I  spoke,  and  firmly,  — 

'"This  is  madness,  Naomi.  Already  the 
Curse  is  heavy  enough  upon  us.  Do  you  not 
know  that  our  brother  Jasper  was  done  to  death 
yonder  because  of  this  doom  of  ours ;  that  be- 
cause of  this  awful  malison  on  the  race  of  Kun- 
dry '  .  .  .  that  .  .  .  my  little  son  .  .  . 

"'I  know  all,  —  what  has  been,  what  is, 
what  shall  be.  Once  more  I  ask  you :  will  you 
be  the  prophet  of  the  Gypsy  Christ?' 

"  '  No,  never,  so  help  me  God  ! ' 

" '  This  is  the  fourth  day  of  this  Week  of  the 
Miracle.  To-morrow  thou  hast ;  and  the  day 
after;  and  yet  again,  another  day.  Repent 
while  there  is  yet  time.     But  if  thou  dost  not 


->•    The  Gypsy  Christ.  69 

repent,  thine  end  shall  be  as  that  of  thy  dog. 
An  awful  sign  shall  be  with  thee  this  very 
night;  yet  another  shall  be  with  thee  on  the 
morrow;  and  on  the  third  thou  shalt  receive 
the  message  of  the  Cross.  Then  thou  shalt 
waver  no  more,  for  whom  all  wavering  is  for- 
ever past.     And  now,  begone  ! ' 

"  Broken  in  spirit,  I  turned.  When,  a  hun- 
dred yards  thence,  I  looked  back,  there  was  no 
trace  of  Naomi  anywhere. 

"  That  night  I  had  the  first  sign." 

Here  Fanshawe  ceased  for  a  moment,  and 
wiped  the  cold  sweat  from  his  forehead  with  a 
hand  tremulous  as  a  reed.  His  voice  had  sunk 
into  a  dull  monotony,  to  me  dreadful. 

"  On  the  day  following,  I  had  the  second  sign. 
Drops  of  blood  oozed  from  the  red  figure  of  the 
Christ  that  you  have  seen  in  my  room.  Then, 
you  came.  To-day  I  have  had  the  message  of 
the  Cross.  You  saw  it  yourself :  a  green  cross 
on  the  portal  of  the  house. 

"  Then  at  last  my  terror  overmastered  me. 
Also,  I  yet  hoped  to  prevail  with  Naomi.  Thus 
it  was  that  when  I  left  you  abruptly  this  after- 
noon, I  rode  across  the  moor,  to  the  Wood  o' 
Wendray.     I  reached  the  camp,  but  only  the 


70  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

ashes  of  dead  fires  were  there.  Yet  I  know  my 
people  wait,  and  Naomi  has  my  life  on  the 
hollow  of  her  hand." 

But  here  I  broke  in  eagerly. 

"  Come,  Fanshawe,  come  with  me  at  once,  the 
first  thing  to-morrow.  You  must  not  be  here 
another  day.  It  is  madness  for  you  to  remain. 
Why,  in  another  week  you  would  persuade  your- 
self that  you  too  had  inherited  this  so-called 
curse ! " 

"Z(?^/&/"  he  shouted,  springing  to  his  feet, 
tearing  the  coverings  from  his  hands,  and  hold- 
ing forth  the  palms  to  me,  rigid,  testifying,  ap- 
palling: ''Look!  Look!  Look!'" 

And  as  I  live  I  saw  upon  the  hands  the  livid 
stigmata  of  the  Passion  ! 

With  a  cry,  I  repelled  him.  A  great  horror 
seized  me.  But  the  next  moment  a  greater 
pity  vanquished  my  weakness.  He  had  already 
fallen.  I  took  him  in  my  arms,  and  laid  him 
back  on  his  chair. 

James  Fanshawe  was  dead. 

For  some  minutes  I  stared,  paralysed,  upon 
the  still  face  that  had  just  been  so  wrought  with 
a  consuming  frenzy.  A  deep  awe  came  upon 
me.     I  crossed  the  room,  threw  back  the  win- 


^      The  Gypsy  Christ.  71 

dow,  and  looked  out.  Grailph  the  hound  was 
not  there.  Nor  could  he  have  been  lurking 
near,  for  at  that  moment  I  saw  a  man  glide 
swiftly  across  the  yard,  and  disappear  into  the 
gloom. 

The  rain  was  over,  the  thunder  rumbled  far 
across  the  moors;  the  wind,  too,  had  veered, 
and  I  heard  it  crying  hke  a  lost  thing,  in  the 
deep  ravine  of  the  Gap. 

I  stayed  quietly  beside  my  friend,  keeping 
vigil  till  the  dawn.  While  it  was  still  dark,  I 
went  again  to  the  window,  and  looked  out.  On 
the  moor  I  could  hear  two  larks  singing  at  a 
great  altitude.  Doubtless  they  had  soared  to 
meet  the  dawnlight. 

I  thought  of  Naomi,  whose  madness  would 
surely  bring  upon  her,  and  that  soon,  the  awful 
ancestral  doom.  Yet  of  this  I  knew  I  should 
hear  nothing.  The  Children  of  the  Wind  have 
a  saying :  The  dog  barks  by  day,  and  the  fox  by 
night;  but  the  Gypsy  never  lets  any  one  know 
whence  he  comes,  where  he  is,  or  whither  he 
goes. 

Sometimes  the  horror  of  it  all  makes  me  long 
to  look  upon  it  as  an  evil  dream.  Has  the 
dreadful  Curse  at  last  worked  itself  out?    With 


72  The  Gypsy  Christ. 

a  sudden  terror,  I  remember  at  times  that  James 
Fanshawe  had  two  children  born  to  him.  What 
of  the  girl  ?  Did  she,  too,  laugh,  when  her  kin- 
dred led  Naomi  to  her  doom  ?  Even  now  doth 
she  move  swift  and  sure  towards  that  day  when 
she  shall  go  quick  with  child ;  when  she  or  the 
child  or  the  child's  child  shall  arise  and  say, 
"  Behold  the  Gypsy  Christ  is  come  at  last ! " 


MADGE    O'  THE   POOL. 


Madge  o'  the  Pool 

A  Thames  Etching. 


When  the  January  fog  hangs  heavy  upon  Lon- 
don it  comes  down  upon  the  Pool  as  though 
it  were  sluiced  there  like  a  drain,  or  as  a  mass 
of  garbage  shot  over  a  declivity  in  a  waste 
place.  The  Pool  is  not  a  lovely  spot  in  winter, 
though  it  has  a  beauty  of  its  own  on  the  rare 
days  when  the  sun  shines  in  an  unclouded 
frosty  sky,  or  when  a  northwester  comes  down 
from  the  distant  heights  of  Highgate  and 
Hampstead,  and  slaps  the  incoming  tide  with 
short  splashes  of  waves  washed  up  by  the  down- 
ward current,  till  the  whole  reach  of  the  Thames 
thereabouts  is  a  jumble  of  blue  and  white  and 
of  gleaming  if  dirty  grays  and  greens.  On 
midwinter  nights,  too,  when  the  moon  has 
swung  up  out  of  the  smoke,  like  a  huge  fire- 
balloon  adrift  from  the  Lambeth  furnaces,  and 


>]&  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

when  the  stars  glint  like  javelin  points,  there 
is  something  worth  seeing  down  there,  where 
the  forest  of  masts  rises  sheer  and  black,  and 
where  there  is  a  constant  cross-flash  of  red 
and  green  rays  from  innumerable  bow-lamps 
and  stern-windows  and  tipsy  lanterns  trailed 
awry  through  the  rigging.  A  mile  up  stream, 
and  it  is  wonderful  what  stillness  prevails. 
There  is,  of  course,  the  dull  roar  of  omnibuses 
and  cabs  on  the  bridges,  the  muffled  scraping 
sound  of  hundreds  of  persons  moving  rapidly 
afoot,  and,  from  the  banks,  the  tumult  of  indis- 
criminate voices  and  sounds  of  all  kinds  round 
and  beyond  the  crank-crank  of  the  cranes  on 
the  grain-wharves  and  the  bashing  of  the  brick 
and  coal  barges  against  the  wooden  piers. 
But  upon  the  interspaces  of  the  river,  what 
comparative  silence  !  A  disjointed  passenger- 
boat,  with  spelican  funnel  darting  back  to  the 
perpendicular,  shoots  from  under  a  bridge,  and 
paddles  swiftly  down-stream  like  a  frightened 
duck ;  a  few  moments,  and  it  is  out  of  sight, 
swallowed  in  the  haze,  or  swung  round  a  Oend. 
A  trio  of  barges,  chained  to  each  other  like 
galley-slaves,  passes  up-stream,  drawn  by  what 
looks  like  a  huge  bluebottle-fly.    The  bluebottle 


A  Thames  Etching.  ^y 

is  a  tug-boat,  a  "  barge-bug  "  in  river  parlance ; 
and  as-dt  flaps  the  water  with  a  swift  spanking 
smash  of  its  screw,  the  current  is  churned  into  a 
yeast  of  foam  that  is  like  snow  against  the  bows 
of  the  first  barge,  and  thin  as  dirty  steam  when 
washed  from  the  sternmost  into  a  narrow  vanish- 
ing wake.  As  likely  as  not,  the  bargees  are 
silent,  pipely  contemplative,  taciturn  in  view  of 
always  imminent  need  for  palaver  of  a  kind 
almost  unique  in  the  scope  and  vigour  of  its 
blasphemy.  Perhaps,  however,  the  boy  at  the 
caboose  forward  whistles  the  tune  of  "  O  were 
I  sodger  gay  "  or  that  perennial  favourite  which 
recounts  the  deeds  of  Jack  Do  and  Bob  Did  n't 
in  the  too  familiar  groves  of  Pentonville ;  or  the 
seedy  man  in  shirt-sleeves,  who  walks  the  star- 
board plank  with  a  pole  and  thinks  he  is  busy, 
may  yell  a  ragged  joke  to  a  comrade  similarly 
employed  on  one  of  the  other  barges.  Or  even, 
and  indeed  very  probably,  the  heavily  cravated, 
dogskin-capped  helmsman  may  suddenly  be 
moved  to  a  hoarse  volley  of  words  so  saturated, 
dominated,  upheld,  overborne  by  the  epithet 
"  bloody,"  that  the  "  coal-bunker  "  might  almost 
be  taken  for  a  slaughter-house  escaping  in  dis- 
guise.     But  even  the  barges  slump  up-stream 


78  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

out  of  sight  before  long :  and  then,  how  quiet 
the  river  is  for  a  space !  The  wharf -rats  are  so 
fat  that  they  mal<e  a  stone-like  splash  when  they 
plunge  through  the  grain-dollops;  but  only  a 
practised  ear  could  recognise  the  sound  in  the 
rude  sussurrus  of  the  current,  or  "spot"  the 
shrill  squeaks,  as  of  a  drowning  and  despairing 
penny-whistle,  when  a  batch  of  these  "Thames- 
chickens  "  scurries  in  sudden  flight  down  a 
granary-slide  and  goes  flop  into  the  quagmires 
of  mud  left  uncovered  by  the  ebb.  But  at  the 
Pool  there  is  never  complete  silence.  Even  if 
there  be  no  wind,  the  curses  of  the  Poolites  (in 
at  least  twenty  varieties  of  human  lingo)  would 
cause  enough  current  of  air  to  crease  the  river's 
dirty  skin  here  and  there  into  a  grim  smile. 

Like  the  rest  of  the  world,  the  Pool  has  its 
sociable  seasons.  Broadly  there  are  two.  The 
shorter  might  be  called  that  of  the  concertina 
and  open-air  "  flings ;  "  the  longer  that  of  the 
riverine  singing-dens  and  dancing-saloons.  But 
the  regular  population  has  not  much  time  for 
systematic  gaiety,  not  even  in  the  long  summer 
nights:  a  bad  season,  in  fact,  when  there  is 
little  business  to  be  done  and  too  much  light  to 
do  it  in.     The  stranger  visiting  the  neighbour- 


A  Thames  Etching.  79 

hood  —  that  is  to  say  the  stranger  who  carries 
in  his  aspect  too  obvious  credentials  as  to  his 
respectabiht)-  —  niiglit  laugh  at  the  idea  of  there 
being  a  Pool  population  at  all,  that  is,  of  a  per- 
manent kind.  He  will  find  the  saloons  in  the 
locality  haunted  by  a  motley  gathering,  where  as 
a  rule  the  ladies  show  no  insular  partiality  in 
their  acceptance  of  partners  either  in  the  danc- 
ing-shops or  other  dens  of  more  or  less  repute, 
and  where,  without  having  had  the  advantages 
of  an  excellent  training  at  a  young  ladies'  acad- 
emy, they  seem  quite  at  ease  with  gentlemen  of 
foreign  parts,  coloured  or  otherwise,  who  talk  no 
lingo  but  their  own.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  cosmo- 
politan society.  The  civilisation  of  the  west 
and  the  wisdom  of  the  east  meet  constantly  in 
the  intercourse  of  the  Irish  dock-labourer  and 
the  Chinese  "  grubber ;  "  and  the  cooUe  or 
Malay  is  as  much  at  home  as  the  Dutchman 
or  Portugee. 

There  is  a  clan  of  which  almost  nothing  is 
known.  It  is  the  people  of  the  Pool.  Ask  the 
river-police,  and  they  will  tell  you  something  of 
the  "water-rats,"  though  if  your  informant  be 
candid  he  will  add  that  he  can't  tell  you  much. 
Many  unfortunate  travellers  have  met  members 


8o  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

of  the  fraternity;  for  one  of  their  favourite  and 
most  reputable  pursuits  is  the  ferrying  at  exor- 
bitant prices  (the  inevitable  purloining  skilfully 
carried  on  at  a  certain  stage  is  not  charged  for) 
of  would-be  voyagers  by  the  Hamburg  and  Bal- 
tic steamers,  when,  on  account  of  the  tide,  em- 
barkation has  to  take  place  midstream.  The 
Poolites  haunt  Irongate  and  Horsleydown  stairs, 
and  are  given  to  resenting  active  interest  in  their 
vested  rights.  But  their  chief  means  of  life  is 
otherwise  obtained.  They  are  the  vermin  of 
the  Thames,  and  they  scour  its  surface  by  night 
with  irreproachable  industry  and  thoroughness. 
It  would  not  be  easy  to  describe  what  they  do, 
particularly  under  cover  of  mist  or  fog;  it  is 
simplest  to  say  that  they  will  do  anything,  ex- 
cept speak  to  a  "  cat"  or  refuse  a  drink.  A  "  cat," 
it  may  be  observed,  is  the  name  applied  to  a 
member  of  the  river-police ;  and  as  the  *'  cats  " 
are  always  worrying,  even  when  not  directly 
chasing  the  Poolites,  or  "  rats,"  the  result  is 
incompatibility  of  temper. 

Many  of  the  Poolites  haunt  holes  and  corners 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Horsleydown  stairs. 
Some  have  their  lair  in  old  boats,  or  among 
rotten  sheds  or  wood-piles  ;  others  are  as  home- 


A  Thames  Etching.  8i 

less,  as  well  as  unpleasant  and  as  fierce  as 
dung^eetles.  Among  them  there  are  "  rats  " 
of  either  sex  who  are  practically  never  ashore, 
whose  knowledge  of  London  is  confined  to 
familiarity  with  the  grim  river-frontages,  and 
whose  sole  concern  in  connection  with  "  the 
great  name  of  England  "  is  a  chronic  uneasiness 
about  her  might  and  majesty  in  the  guise  of  the 
police. 

A  score  or  so  of  Poolites  are  marked  men. 
That  is  to  say,  either  through  length  of  expe- 
rience in  loafing  and  vagabondage,  or  owing  to 
proved  crime,  their  names  are  known  to  the 
"  cats,"  and  their  persons  occasionally  wanted. 
An  invincible  modesty  characterises  the  Poolite. 
He  sees  no-  distinction  in  public  arrest,  and 
the  halo  of  a  conviction  does  not  allure  him. 
In  a  word,  he  is  a  water-rat,  and  wishes  to 
remain  one. 

The  fact  that  he  was  so  well-known,  and 
could  generally  be  easily  found,  was  a  chronic 
sore  in  the  di  ink-besotted  mind  of  old  Dick 
Robins.  He  loathed  this  distinction,  and  could 
he  have  gained  prolonged  credit  at  any  other 
gin-shop  than  that  of  his  brother  Bill  he  would 

6 


82  Madge  o'  the  Pool  : 

have  shifted  his  quarters.  The  fact  that,  as  a 
younger  man,  twenty  years  earlier,  when  he  was 
about  thirty,  — for  age  does  not  go  by  years  in 
every  part  of  the  world  —  he  had  thrice  served 
his  term  in  jail,  may  have  prejudiced  him 
against  any  radical  change  in  his  way  of  life. 
On  the  second  occasion  he  had  appropriated 
in  too  conspicuous  a  fashion  the  contents  of  a 
lady's  pocket,  the  wife  of  a  sea-captain  with 
whom  he  had  found  it  difficult  to  come  to  an 
exorbitant  arrangement ;  and  for  this  very  nat- 
ural action  he  was  condemned  to  three  years' 
imprisonment,  with  atrocious  and  objectionable 
hard  labour.  He  would  have  been  embittered 
against  the  law  to  the  end  of  his  days,  if  he  had 
not  been  so  far  mollified  by  the  light  sentence 
on  his  third  "go,"  one  of  six  weeks,  —  thus 
light,  as  the  charge  was  only  of  having  brutally 
kicked  his  wife  up  and  down  a  barge  and  then 
into  the  half-frozen  Thames.  As  she  died  of 
rheumatic  fever,  Mr.  Robins  could  not  legally, 
of  course,  be  held  accountable.  For  twenty 
years  or  more  Dick  Robins  had  found  gin  so 
pleasing  a  mistress  that  he  had  been  unable  to 
give  any  but  the  most  nominal  attention  —  it 
would  be  absurd  to  say  to  the  education  —  to 


--A  Thames  Etching.  83 

the  growth  of  his  daughter.  Her  name  was 
"girl:"  that  is,  his  name  for  her.  Baptised 
Margaret,  she  was  commonly  called  Madge. 
He  realised  that  she  was  a  girl,  and  comely,  on 
account  of  various  ideas  of  his  own  and  sugges- 
tions from  outside,  all  on  the  same  level  of  pro- 
found depravity.  He  first  regarded  her  as  a 
woman  when,  having  lost  eleven  and  fourpence 
at  Wapping-euchre  to  Ned  Bull,  that  gentleman 
generously  offered  to  overlook  the  debt,  and  to 
spend  the  remaining  eight  and  eightpence  of 
the  broken  quid  in  two  bottles  of  "Jamaicy" 
and  four  goes  of  "  Aunt  Maria,"  conditionally 
on  receipt  of  Madge  as  the  legal  Mrs.  Bull. 
The  offer  would  have  been  accepted  right  off, 
but  Mr.  Robins  found  to  his  chagrin  that  the 
bottles  of  rum  and  goes  of  proof-gin  would  not 
be  consumable  till  the  marriage  festival. 

Madge  was  a  dark,  handsome  girl,  tall,  well- 
made  though  too  thin,  somewhat  slatternly  in 
dress,  though  generally  with  a  clean  face,  and, 
stranger  to  say,  with  fairly  clean  hands.  Neither 
she  nor  anyone  else  would  have  dreamed  of  the 
application  to  her  of  the  term  "beautiful."  Only 
those  who  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  as  she  stood 
in  a  statuesque  pose,  pole  in  hand,  on  some  hay 


84  Madge  o'  the   Pool : 

barge  or  hoy  in  ballast,  or  as  she  sculled  up 
stream  or  down,  deft  as  a  duck  in  the  fen- 
tangle,  noticed  the  beauty  of  her  thick-clustered, 
ample  hair,  and  mayhap  the  splendour  of  her 
large,  dark,  velvety  eyes.  Madge  knew  very 
little  of  shore-life,  even  that  of  the  Horsleydown 
neighbourhood,  and  nothing  at  all  of  the  larger 
life  of  that  vast  metropolis  which  represented 
the  world  to  her  :  though  she  was  vaguely  aware 
that  beyond  the  Isle  of  Dogs  the  Thames 
widened  to  that  sea  which  bore  the  foreign  ships 
that  came  to  London,  and  brought  so  many 
mariners  of  divers  nationalities,  all  equally  eager 
for  two  things:  strong  drink  and  purchaseable 
women.  When  ashore,  she  was  generally  at 
the  house  of  her  uncle  Bill  the  publican,  or, 
more  often,  at  that  of  her  sister-in-law,  Nell 
Robins.  For  all  her  rough  life,  her  rude  im- 
aginings, her  uncouth  surroundings,  her  igno- 
rance of  refinement  in  speech  or  manner,  Madge 
was  pure  of  heart,  honourable  in  all  her  intimate 
dealings,  and  as  upright  generally  as  she  had 
any  call  to  be. 

Dick  Robins  was  coarse  and  brutal  enough 
in  his  talk  when  she  had  refused  to  desert  the 
river-life  of  the  Pool  in  order  to  act  as  bar-maid 


^A  Thames  Etching.  85 

at  her  uncle's  public-house,  the  "  Jolly  Rovers." 
Witti  all  her  experience,  and  she  could  have 
given  points  to  most  specialists  in  blasphemy, 
she  learned  the  full  vocabulary  of  utter  degra- 
dation when  she  told  her  father  that  "  Gawd 
hisself  couldn't  swop  her  to  that  beast,  Ned 
Bull,  without  her  will,  which  would  never  be 
till  she  was  drownded,  and  not  then." 

The  drink-sodden  brute  went  so  far,  even 
before  he  violently  struck  her  again  and  again, 
that,  though  he  confirmed  her  in  her  abhorrence 
of  the  proposed  union,  he  was  the  first  great 
reforming  force  in  her  life.  After  that,  she 
realised,  she  might  "dry  up."  Foulness  of 
speech  could  go  no  further.  A  disgust  of  it  all 
came  upon  the  girl.  She  prayed  an  unwonted 
prayer  to  that  mysterious  abstraction  God,  whose 
name  she  heard  as  often  as  that  of  the  police, 
that  she  might  have  strength  to  refrain  from  all 
ugly  horrors  of  speech,  except,  of  course,  such 
acknowledged  ornaments  of  conversation  as 
"  bloody  "  and  "  damn." 

Yet  no,  not  quite  the  first,  if  the  most  imme- 
diate, reforming  influence.  She  had  already 
incurred  the  wrath  and  contempt  of  the  Horsley- 
down  and  Irongate  mudswipes,  by  her  attitude 


86  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

towards  Jim  Shaw,  a  despised  and  hated  "  cat," 
a  river  policeman.  He  had  saved  her  from 
drowning,  on  an  occasion  when  the  most  obvious 
help  lay  with  her  own  people,  not  one  of  whom, 
boy  or  man,  had  bestirred  himself.  "Water- 
rat"  though  she  was,  and  acknowledged  foe  as 
was  every  "cat,"  she  was  so  little  at  one  with 
her  kindred  as  to  be  able  to  feel  grateful 
towards  her  saviour,  particularly  as  he  was  so 
good-looking  a  deliverer,  and  possessed,  in  her 
eyes,  a  manner  of  ideal  grace  and  dignity. 

It  was  on  a  dirty,  foggy,  December  afternoon 
that  Dick  Robins  had  tried,  through  a  flood  of 
blasphemy  and  obscenity,  to  drift  his  meaning 
alongside  the  wharf  of  the  girl's  mind.  When 
he  found  that  she  would  have  none  of  it,  was  a 
rebel  outright,  he  followed  curses  with  blows, 
till  at  last,  wild  with  rage  and  pain,  Madge 
rushed  from  the  low  tavern  whither  her  father 
had  inveigled  her.  Naturally,  she  made  straight 
for  the  river.  Having  sprung  into  a  dingy,  she 
sculled  rapidly  amidstream.  She  had  no  idea 
what  she  was  going  to  do.  To  get  quite  away 
from  that  horrible  street,  from  that  drink-den, 
from  that  human  beast  who  called  himself  her 
father  —  that  was  her  one  overmastering  wish. 


A  Thames  Etching.  87 

An  unpleasant  fate  might  easily  have  been 
hers -that  night,  had  she  not  fortunately  broken 
an  oar.  The  swing  of  the  current  caught  the 
boat,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  broadside  on. 
A  wood-barge  and  a  collier  were  coming  down, 
and  a  large  steamer  forging  up-stream,  and  there 
she  jobbled  helplessly,  right  in  their  way,  and 
almost  certain  to  be  crushed  or  swamped.  All 
the  girl's  usual  resourcefulness  suddenly  left  her. 
She  realised  that  she  was  done  for,  a  thought 
at  which  not  she  but  only  her  youth  instinctively 
rebelled. 

Suddenly,  slionp  —  slutnp  —  splash  —  came 
the  wood-barge  almost  upon  her.  She  saw  a 
pole  thrust  past  her  to  stave  the  dingy  off  from 
too  violent-a  concussion ;  and  the  next  moment 
some  one  was  over  the  low  side  and  in  the  boat 
beside  her.  She  recognised  Jim  Shaw,  as  in  a 
dream. 

"  Here,  I  '11  put  you  right,"  he  said  roughly  ; 
"  hand  me  that  oar."  While  sculling  from  the 
stern-rollock,  he  told  her  that  he  had  been  up- 
stream on  duty,  and  had  been  given  a  lift 
down  again  by  his  friend,  the  owner  of  the 
barge  "  Pride  of  Wapping;"  that  he  had  seen 
her  predicament,  and,  as  the  distance  narrowed, 


88  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

recognised  her  face ;  and  that  "  there  he 
was." 

Madge  thanked  him  earnestly,  and  remarked, 
incidentally,  that  "  it  was  a  bloody  near  squeak." 
She  saw  him  look  at  her,  and  glanced  back  with 
a  new,  vague  apprehension. 

"  You  're  a  pretty  girl,  Madge,  and  a  good 
girl,  I  believe, — too  good  to  use  that  rot.  Wy, 
blast  me,  if  I  'eard  a  sister  o'  mine  use  that  word 
'  bloody  '  so  free  permiskuous,  I  'd  let  her  know 
—  damme  if  I  would  n't !  " 

"  Have  you  a  sister,  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  Shaw  ?  '* 
asked  Madge,  curiously,  and  not  in  the  least 
offended. 

"  No,  nor  no  mother,  neither ;  but  I  had  'em. 
Look  here,  Madge,  I  'm  a  lonely  chap,  an'  I  've 
took  a  fancy  to  you  —  did  that  time  I  hauled  ye 
out  o'  the  Pool  —and  I  '11  tell  you  wot:  you  cut 
old  Robins  and  all  that  gang,  and  be  my  gal  ?  " 

Madge  turned  her  great  eyes  upon  him.  He 
thought  she  was  scornful,  or  mayhap  only 
reckoning  up  the  actual  and  possible  advan- 
tages of  the  connection.  She,  for  her  part,  was 
taken  aback  by  what  seemed  to  her  his  splendid 
chivalry  and  the  refined  charm  of  his  address. 

"  Now  then,  lass,  say  yes  or  no,  for  we  '11  be 


^  Thames  Etching.  89 

along  p'  the  Irongate  in  a  jifiFy,  an'  some  o'  your 
lot 's  tound  to  be  there." 

"  I  '11  be  your  gal,  Jim  Shaw,"  was  all  she 
said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Shaw  thereupon  gave  the  oar  a  twist,  and 
kept  the  boat  midstream  for  a  hundred  yards 
or  so  below  Irongate  wharf.  When  nearly 
opposite  a  small  floating  quay  marked  No.  9, 
he  sculled  alongside.  Ten  minutes  later  he  had 
obtained  leave  of  absence  for  the  night,  and 
then  he  and  Madge  went  off  together  to  hunt 
for  lodgings. 

For  the  next  few  days  Madge  was  fairly 
happy.  She  would  have  been  quite  happy  if 
she  and  Jim  could  have  been  with  each  other; 
but  it  was  a  busy  time  with  the  river-police,  and 
he  could  not  get  away  at  nights.  He  got  back 
to  their  room  between  six  and  eight  in  the 
morning,  but  had  to  sleep  till  well  after  mid- 
day ;  and  as  he  had  to  be  on  duty  again  by  six, 
and  sometimes  earlier,  they  had  not  much  time 
for  going  anpvhere  together.  But,  in  truth, 
Madge  cared  little  for  the  entertainments  they 
did  go  to.  The  painted  tawdrj'  women  offended 
her  in  a  way  they  had  never  done  before;  the 
coarse  jokes  of  the  men  did  not  strike  her  as 


90  Madge  o'  the  Pool  : 

funny.  She  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  great 
change  in  herself.  Physically  and  mentally  she 
was  another  woman  after  that  first  night  alone 
with  Jim.  She  was  his  "gal,"  and  would  be 
the  mother  of  their  "kid"  if  she  had  one; 
but  it  was  not  the  obvious  in  wifehood  or 
motherhood  that  took  possession  of  her  dormant 
imagination,  but  something  mysterious,  awful 
even,  sacred.  The  outward  sign  of  this  spiritual 
revolution,  this  new,  solemnising,  exquisite  ob- 
session, was  a  complete  cessation  from  even 
such  customary  flowers  of  speech  as  those  above 
alluded  to ;  and,  later,  a  more  scrupulous  tidi- 
ness. What  joy  it  was  when  Jim  told  her  one 
morning  that  he  was  to  have  Boxing-day  as  a 
complete  holiday.  At  last  the  heavens  seemed 
opened.  He  proposed  all  manner  of  wild  and 
extravagant  trips :  a  visit  to  the  inside  of  St. 
Paul's  or  the  Tower,  so  familiar  externally  to 
both,  to  be  followed  by  an  omnibus-trip  through 
the  great  city  to  that  home  of  splendour,  Madame 
Tussaud's,  or  even  to  the  Zoological  Gardens, 
the  monkey-house  in  which  had  made  on  Jim's 
boyhood-mind  an  indelible  impression  of  ex- 
cruciating humour.  The  wildest  suggestion  of 
all   was  a    triple   glory :    the   Tower    and   St. 


A  Thames  Etching.  91 

Paul's,  then  far  away  to  the  gorgeous  delights 
of  the''Crystal  Palace,  and  at  night  to  the  Pan- 
tomime at  Drury  Lane. 

But  in  great  happiness  the  mind  sometimes 
resents  superfluity  of  joys.  In  deep  love,  as  in 
deep  water,  says  a  great  writer,  there  is  a  gloom. 
The  gloom,  in  the  instance  of  Madge,  arose 
from  her  profound  weariness  of  the  streets  and 
the  house-life,  her  overmastering  longing  for 
the  river.  If  an  angel  had  offered  her  a  boon, 
she  would  have  fulfilled  a  passionate  dream  by 
becoming  a  female  member  of  the  river-police, 
and  being  ranked  as  Jim  Shaw's  mate. 

When  Jim  realised  what  was  in  the  girl's  mind 
and  heart,  he  good-naturedly,  though  not  with- 
out a  sigh,  gave  up  his  projects,  and  bestirred 
himself  to  please  Madge.  One  suggestion  he 
did  make:  that  they  should  get  "spliced;"  but 
Madge  thought  this  a  waste  of  time,  money, 
and  even  welfare  —  for  she  vaguely  realised  that 
she  had,  and  probably  would  continue  to  have, 
more  hold  over  Jim  as  her  "man"  than  as 
her  legal  husband.  "It  might  be  better,"  he 
remarked  once,  meditatively. 

"But  why;  don't  I  love  you?"  was  Madge's 
naive  and  unanswerable  reply. 


92  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

By  Christmas  Day  all  was  arranged.  Jim 
knew  the  captain  of  a  river  steamer  who  had 
promised  to  take  them  as  far  as  Kew.  Thence 
they  were  to  go  by  rail  to  Windsor,  to  show 
Madge  those  two  marvels,  —  where  the  Queen 
lived,  and  "  the  real  country ;  "  then  they  were 
to  leave  in  time  to  catch  the  ebb-tide  below 
Richmond,  and  go  down  stream  on  a  friend's 
hoy,  the  "  Dancing  Mary,"  all  the  way  to 
Gravesend.  Madge  would  thus  see  the  country 
and  the  ocean  in  one  day,  and  yet  all  the  time 
be  on  the  river.  The  project  was  a  mental 
intoxication  to  her.  She  was  in  a  dream  by 
day,  a  fever  by  night.  Jim  laughingly  told  her 
that  he  would  be  blowed  if  he  would  ask  for 
another  holiday  soon. 

A  memorable  day,  indeed,  it  proved.  Madge's 
education  received  an  almost  perilously  rapid 
stimulus.  Long  before  dusk  she  had  won  for 
herself,  besides  a  little  rapture,  a  new  pain  that 
would  henceforth  be  a  constant  ally,  and  per- 
haps a  tyrant. 

The  beauty  even  of  the  winter-riverscape 
affected  her  painfully.  That  great  stillness, 
that  indescribable  calm,  that  white  peace,  that 
stainless  purity  of  the  snowy  vicinage  of  the 


A  Thames  Etching.  93 

Thames  near  Windsor,  was  an  overwhelming 
reproach  upon  life  as  she  knew  it,  and  upon 
herself.  She  was  conscious  of  three  emotions  : 
horror  of  the  past,  gratitude  to  Jim,  her  saviour 
and  revealer,  and  a  dumb  sense  of  the  glory  of 
life  as  it  might  be.  But  at  first  she  was  simply 
overcome.  If  she  had  not  feared  how  Jim  would 
take  such  folly,  she  would  have  screamed,  if  for 
nothing  else  than  to  break  the  silence.  He  had 
his  pipe,  merciful  boon  for  the  stagnant  spirit 
and  the  inactive  mind;  she  had  nothing  to  dis- 
tract her  outer  from  her  inner  self,  nothing  to 
ease  her  from  the  dull  perplexity  and  pain  of 
that  incessant  if  almost  inarticulate  soul-sum- 
mons of  which  she  was  dimly  conscious.  More 
than  once,  even,  a  great  home-sickness  came 
upon  her  ;  a  bodily  nostalgia  for  that  dirty,  con- 
gested, often  hideous,  always  squalid  life,  to 
which  she  had  been  born,  and  in  which  she  had 
been  bred.  Once,  at  a  lonely  spot,  where  the 
river  curved  through  snow-clad  meadows,  with 
an  austere  but  exquisite  beauty,  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  certain  relief,  when  she  and  her 
fellow-passengers  were  collectively  swept  by  a 
volcanic  lava-flood  of  abuse  from  an  infuriated 
bargee,  horrible  to  most  ears  that  heard,  but  to 


94  Madge  o'  the  Pool  : 

her  coming  as  inland  odours  to  tired  seamen, 
subtly  welcome  as  it  was  in  its  appealing 
home-sound. 

She  was  affected  as  profoundly,  if  not  so 
acutely,  by  the  voyage  down  the  lower  reaches 
of  the  Thames  beyond  the  Pool.  Windsor 
itself  had  not  greatly  impressed  her.  It  was 
too  remotely  grand. 

When,  late  that  night,  the  hoy  anchored  off 
Gravesend,  and  through  the  darkness  came  up 
a  moan,  and  a  sigh,  and  a  tumult  as  of  muffled 
steps  and  stifled  whispers,  that  was  the  voice  of 
the  sea,  Madge,  almost  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  was  troubled  by  the  thought  of  death.  The 
night  was  dark,  without  moon,  and  the  stars 
were  obscured  by  drifted  smoke  and  opaque  films 
of  mist.  An  easterly  wind  worried  the  waves  as 
they  came  slap-slapping  against  the  current,  and 
there  was  often  a  sound  as  of  irregular  mus- 
ketry. A  steady  swish-swish  accompanied  the 
now  flowing  tide,  or  the  way  of  the  wind.  The 
salt  chill  that  came  with  it  made  the  girl's  blood 
tingle.  She  longed  to  do  something,  she  knew 
not  what. 

They  had  two  berths  to  themselves,  screened 
so  efficiently  as  to  give  them  all  the  privacy  of 


A  Thames  Etching.  95 

a  bedrpom.  They  were  very  happy  after  their 
long  wonderful  day;  but  what  with  happiness, 
many  pipefuls  of  tobacco,  and  liberal  gin,  Jim 
soon  fell  asleep.  Madge  lay  awake  for  hours. 
It  was  a  boisterous  night  seaward.  The  reach 
of  the  Thames  estuary  thereabouts  was  all  in 
a  jumble.  The  wind,  surging  overhead,  had  a 
cry  in  it  foreign  to  any  inland  wail  or  city  scream. 
Madge  listened  and  trembled.  The  sound  of 
the  sea  calling :  it  was  a  revelation,  a  memory, 
a  prophecy,  a  menace. 


96.  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 


II. 


Next  day,  Madge  learned  what  she  had  ex- 
pected :  that  her  voyage  down-stream  had  been 
duly  noted  by  her  kindred.  She  knew  them  well 
enough  to  regret  that  she  and  Jim  had  not  kept 
out  of  sight  from,  at  any  rate,  London  Bridge 
to  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  Jim  laughed  at  her  fears, 
but  warned  her  to  hold  her  weather-eye  open, 
and,  in  particular,  to  avoid  the  Pool. 

This,  unfortunately,  was  just  what  Madge 
could  not  do.  She  had  the  river-water  in  her 
blood.  Jim  might  as  well  have  put  a  mouse 
near  a  cheese  and  told  it  to  stay  beside  the 
empty  bread-plate. 

Gradually  she  became  a  more  and  more  fre- 
quent visitor  to  her  old  haunts.  It  was  com- 
monly understood,  Irongate-way,  that  Madge 
had  gone  ofi  with  some  seafaring  chap,  but 
was  getting  tired,  or  perhaps  was  not  finding  the 
"  rhino  "  quite  so  free.  On  the  other  hand,  her 
secret  was  known  where  she  would  fain  have 
had  it   unguessed.     She   had  a  good  deal  to 


^  Thames  Etching.  97 

put  up  with.  The  female  Poolites  had  nasty 
tongues ;  the  males  of  the  species,  whom  she 
had  kept  at  bay  before  with  comparative  ease, 
believed  that  they  might  now  have  a  turn.  An 
unspoken  but  not  less  dreaded  ban  lay  upon 
her  on  the  part  of  her  own  people.  Now  and 
again  she  saw  Ned  Bull,  and  the  savage  lust  in 
the  man's  brutal  face,  with  a  concurrent  hatred 
and  revengeful  malice,  sent  all  her  nature  into 
revolt.  He  caught  her  one  day  on  Horsleydown 
stairs,  and  at  once  leered  at  her  in  devilish 
fashion  and  taunted  her.  She  swung  round 
and  struck  him  full  in  the  face. 

The  next  moment  she  was  in  the  water. 
When  a  sympathetic  bystander  had  hauled  her 
out —  s}'mpathetic  in  the  sense  that  he  wanted 
to  see  Bull  "give  the  gal  her  change  "  in  full  — 
the  man  strode  up  and  hissed  in  her  ear,  — 

"  I  '11  knife  that  bully-rip  o'  yourn  as  sure  's 
I  'm  death  on  '  cats ; '  ay,  an'  wot 's  more,  I  '11 
'ave  you  as  my  gal  yet." 

"  Ay,  Ned  Bull,"  answered  Madge,  in  a  loud, 
clear  voice,  while  her  great  eyes  flashed  daunt- 
less defiance,  "that  you  will  when  the  Pool's 
run  dry,  an'  I  'm  squeaking  like  a  rat  in  the 
mud;  but  not  afore  that,  s'  'elp  me  Gawd!" 

7 


98  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

After  this  episode  Madge  knew  that  she  would 
have  to  be  doubly  on  her  guard.  Ned  Bull  was 
not  a  man  to  have  as  an  enemy,  particularly  as 
he  knew  well  where  to  strike  the  only  blow 
she  really  feared.  And,  as  it  happened,  her 
fears  ultimately  proved  to  be  only  too  well- 
grounded;  though  some  months  passed  in  ap- 
parent security. 

The  only  one  among  all  whom  she  knew,  who 
had  remained  loyal  to  her,  was  a  girl  called 
Arabella  Goodge,  to  whom  she  had  once  done 
a  prompt  service.  The  girl  had  sworn  that 
she  would  never  be  content  till  she  had  proved 
her  gratitude,  and  she  meant  it.  The  oppor- 
tunity came  at  last. 

Late  one  afternoon  in  June,  just  six  months 
after  her  union  with  Jim,  Madge  was  astonished 
to  hear  herself  asked  for  at  the  door  of  her 
lodging.  "  Is  this  wheer  Jim  Shaw's  gal  lives  ?  " 
was  not  tactful,  perhaps,  but  it  was  unmistak- 
able. Madge  recognised  the  voice,  and  was 
eager  to  see  one  whom  instinctively  she  knew 
to  be  a  herald  of  good  or  evil ;  yet  she  could  not 
but  enjoy  a  delay  which  involved  so  personal  a 
passage  of  arms  as  that  which  took  place  be- 
tween   Mrs.    McCorkoran,   the    landlady,    and 


^  Thames  Etching.  99 

Miss  Goodge.  Ultimately  Miss  Goodge  was 
announced  into  the  presence  of  "  Mrs.  Shaw, 
an'  Mrs.  James  Shaw  at  that,  an'  be  damned 
t'  ye ! " 

The  girl  came  —  and  at  what  risk  to  herself 
no  one  could  better  know  than  Madge  —  to  give 
warning  of  a  plot.  Two  boats  of  "  rats  "  were 
to  lie  in  wait  that  very  night,  if  the  fog  held, 
and  run  down  the  "  Swiftsure,"  a  particularly 
obnoxious  "  cat-boat."  Of  course  Miss  Goodge 
would  not  have  troubled  to  track  down  and 
visit  Madge  merely  to  tell  her  an  interesting 
item  of  news  ;  only  it  happened  that  Jim  Shaw 
was  "stroke  "  in  the  "  Swiftsure." 

Madge  realised  the  peril  at  once.  She  thanked 
Arabella  cordially,  and  then  set  off  for  Jim's 
station.  The  news  was  doubly  welcome  to 
Jim  ;  it  meant  promotion  probably,  as  well  as  the 
excitement  of  a  fight  and  of  turning  the  tables. 

The  upshot  was,  that  a  boat  with  three  or 
four  dummy  figures  was  at  the  right  hour 
set  adrift  through  the  fog  just  above  the  ap- 
pointed spot.  The  bait  took.  The  collision 
took  place,  and  Jim  Shaw's  dummy  in  particular 
suffered  from  concussion  of  the  brain  from  an 
iron  crowbar  as  well  as  from  submersion  in  the 


lOO  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

river.  The  "  rats  "  had  scarcely  realised  how 
they  had  been  befooled  when  the  "  Swiftsure  " 
was  upon  them.  There  was  a  rush  and  struggle. 
The  Pool-boat  was  upset,  and  each  of  the  late 
occupants  speedily  nabbed,  with  the  exception 
of  Ned  Bull, —  an  exception  which  Jim  Shaw 
regretted  personally  for  obvious  reasons,  and 
officially  because  that  individual  was  particu- 
larly wanted  at  head-quarters,  and  his  capture 
meant  for  the  captor  approval,  and  possibly 
promotion,  by  the  powers  that  were. 

Nevertheless,  practical  approval  came.  True, 
the  crew  of  the  "  Swiftsure"  were  individually 
and  collectively  called  "  duffers  "  for  having  let 
Bull  escape,  when  at  least  they  might  have  hit 
him  on  the  head  with  an  oar:  though  to  this 
Jim  Shaw  replied,  and  of  course  was  backed  up 
by  his  comrades,  that  Ned  Bull  must  have  sunk 
and  been  carried  off  in  the  undertow.  A 
drowned  Ned  Bull  was  not  so  satisfactory  as 
a  caught  Ned  Bull ;  but  still  the  fact  was  one 
for  congratulation. 

What  most  concerned  Shaw  was  his  promo- 
tion a  grade  higher.  The  superintendent  who 
informed  him  of  this  rise  further  hinted  that 
the  young  man  was  looked  upon  favourably,  and 


^  Thames  Etching.  loi 

that  he  might  expect  to  get  on,  if  he  kept  on 
acting  on  the  square  and  was  diligently  alert 
for  the  wicked. 

On  his  way  home  next  morning,  eager  to  tell 
Madge  the  good  news,  Jim  pondered  on  how 
best  to  celebrate  the  occasion.  Suddenly  an 
idea  occurred  to  him.  Promotion  and  pros- 
pects have  a  stimulating  effect  on  ethical  con- 
ceptions. Jim  decided,  firstly,  that  he  would 
make  Madge  his  legal  wife  ;  secondly,  that  he 
would  forgive  his  enemies  and  invite  old  Robins 
and  Will  of  the  "Jolly  Rovers,"  and  Bob 
Robins  and  his  wife,  and  make  a  day  or  rather 
an  evening  of  it.  This,  he  was  sure,  would  give 
Madge  a  position  and  importance  which  she 
could  not  otlierwise  have,  while  it  was  almost 
the  only  way  (except  the  convenient  if  perilous 
one  of  double-dealing)  to  remove  or  at  least  to 
modify  the  resentment  which  Madge  had  in- 
curred. Madge  was  delighted  with  his  news. 
It  meant  another  day,  sometime,  up  the  river; 
another  night,  Gravesend  way,  within  sound  of 
the  sea ;  and,  moreover,  Jim  could  now  carry 
out  his  fascinating  projects  in  connection  with 
Madame  Tussaud's  and  the  Crystal  Palace. 
To  the  question  of  the  marriage  ceremony  she 


102  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

preserved  an  indifferent  front.  If  Jim  really 
wished  it,  she  of  course  was  willing;  if  he 
didn't,  it  was  equally  the  same  to  her.  The 
girl,  in  fact,  was  one  of  those  rare  natures  to 
whom  the  thing  was  everything  and  the  symbol 
of  no  moment.  But  she  was  seriously  opposed 
to  Jim's  Christian  charity  in  the  matter  of  the 
proposed  wedding-party.  She  loved  his  senti- 
mental weakness,  but,  with  her  greater  knowl- 
edge of  ineradicable  depravity,  she  thought  that 
the  honour  of  her  father's  company  might  be 
dispensed  with.  She  yielded  at  last  to  the 
suggestion  as  to  her  brother  Bob  and  his  wife, 
with  a  stipulation  as  to  Arabella  Goodge  ;  but 
disparagingly  combated  the  claims  of  her  uncle. 
Being  a  woman,  however,  having  begun  yield- 
ing, she  yielded  all.  Before  Jim  went  off  to 
the  river  that  night,  the  marriage-day  was  fixed, 
and  it  was  decided  that,  at  the  subsequent  party 
at  the  aristocratic  river-side  tavern,  the  "  Blue 
Boar,"  the  company  of  Jim  and  his  groomsman, 
Ted  Brown,  and  of  Madge  and  her  bridesmaid 
Arabella  Goodge,  was  to  be  further  graced  by 
Mr.  Dick  Robins  (if  sufficiently  sober),  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Robert  Robins,  and  Mr.  William 
Robins  of  the  "Jolly  Rovers." 


A  Thames  Etching.  103 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  three  weeks 
hence/ as  Jim  was  to  get  his  long-promised 
holiday  of  a  week,  from  the  morning  of  Satur- 
day the  1 8th  of  July  till  the  evening  of  Friday 
the  24th.  What  a  week  this  was  to  be  !  Three 
days  of  it  were  to  be  spent  in  the  remote  and 
wild  country  of  Pinner,  of  which  suburban  local- 
ity Jim  was  a  native,  though  he  had  not  been 
there  since  he  was  a  small  boy.  His  aunt 
owned  a  small  sweet-shop  and  general  station- 
ery business  there,  and  would  receive  him  and 
his  bride  for  the  slack  days,  Monday  till 
Wednesday.  As  for  the  other  days,  the  pro- 
posals of  Madge  were  wild,  those  of  Jim  fantas- 
tically extravagant.  The  young  man  was  more 
in  love  with  -Madge  than  ever,  having  the  sense 
to  see  that  she  was  one  among  a  hundred  or  a 
thousand.  Their  hfe  together  had  been  a  happy 
one  for  both.  It  was  Jim,  however,  and  not 
Madge  who  took  a  pleasurable  interest  in  the 
fate  of  the  child  whose  birth  was  expected  in 
September. 

It  was  on  the  15th  of  July,  just  three  days  be- 
fore the  projected  marriage,  that  Madge  was 
startled,  or  at  least  perturbed,  by  an  urgent 
message  brought  to  her  by  a  pot-boy  from  the 


104  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

"  Jolly  Rovers."  Her  father  was  ill,  dying,  and 
wanted  to  see  her  at  once. 

Madge  was  neither  hard-hearted  nor  a  cynic, 
but  it  was  with  perfect  sincerity  that  she  re- 
marked, sotto  voce,  "  I  '11  be  blowed  if  I  '11  rise 
to  that  fake."  Later,  however,  something 
troubled  her.  A  new  tenderness,  if  also  a  new 
weariness,  had  come  to  her  ever  since  she  be- 
came daily  and  hourly  conscious  of  the  burden 
she  bore  within  her.  She  was  so  much  an 
unsullied  child  of  nature,  despite  all  her  dis- 
coloured and  distorted  views  of  life,  that  this 
mystery  of  motherhood  had  all  the  astound- 
ing appeal  of  a  new  and  extraordinary  revela- 
tion. Jim's  child  and  hers!  The  thought  was 
strange  and  quiet  as  that  winter-landscape  she 
had  seen  once  and  never  forgotten ;  though 
at  times  as  strangely  and  overmasteringly  op- 
pressive as  the  silence  of  the  starry  sky,  seen 
through  the  smoke  or  lifting  fog,  or  above  the 
flare  of  the  gas-lamps  in  the  street. 

The  upshot  was  that  she  set  out  for  Plum 
Alley,  off  Thompson's  Court,  the  trans-riverine 
home  of  her  father,  when  he  was  not  at  the 
"  Jolly  Rovers  "  or  elsewhere.  On  the  way  she 
called  at  the  station  to  see  Jim,  but  heard  to  her 


^  Thames  Etching.  105 

surprise  that  he  was  on  special  duty  Horsley- 
down-way.  She  muttered  that  she  might  per- 
haps come  across  him,  as  she  was  just  going 
there  herself,  — a  remark  which  the  superinten- 
dent heard  disapprovingly.  "  Shaw  's  out  on 
ticklish  business,  my  girl,"  he  said,  kindly 
enough  ;  "  and  it  would  be  better  if  you  were  to 
keep  out  of  his  way  :  better  for  us,  better  for 
him,  and  better  for  you."  All  the  same,  Madge, 
as  she  went  on  her  way,  hoped  she  might  at 
least  get  a  glimpse  of  Jim.  Since  the  "  Swift- 
sure  "  incident  she  had  never  felt  at  ease  when 
Shaw  was  on  special  duty.  She  was  aware  that 
Ned  Bull,  even  if  he  was  not  drowned,  had  left 
a  legacy  of  hate  and  revenge. 

The  July  evening  was  heavy  and  sultry.  The 
air  was  as  though  it  consisted  of  a  poisonous 
cloud  of  gin-flavoured  human  breath,  with  rank 
odours  of  divers  kinds.  In  the  narrow  courts 
and  alleys  near  the  river  the  heat  was  stifling. 
The  thunder,  which  all  afternoon  had  growled 
menacingly  round  the  metropolitan  skirts  be- 
yond Muswell  Hill  and  Highgate,  had  stolen 
past  the  eastern  heights  of  Hampstead  and 
crawled  through  the  murky  gloom  of  the  town 
till  it  rested,  sulkily  brooding,  from  Pimlico  to 
Blackfriars. 


I06  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

As  Madge  crossed  the  river,  and  stood  for 
a  few  minutes  to  look  longingly  at  the  water, 
she  noticed  first  that  the  tide  was  just  on  the 
turn  of  the  ebb,  and  next  that  a  thick,  sultry 
fog,  scarce  less  dense  than  a  typical  "  London 
mixture,"  was  crawling  stealthily  up-stream  from 
Shoreditch  and  Wapping.  She  was  thinking 
of  Jim,  and  was  rather  glad  that  he  was  on 
shore-duty. 

When  at  last  she  reached  Plum  Alley,  she 
found,  somewhat  to  her  surprise,  that  her  father 
really  awaited  her.  On  the  other  hand,  she  saw 
at  a  glance  that  his  "sudden  illness"  was  a 
"fake." 

Dick  Robins,  however,  did  not  give  his 
daughter  time  for  an  indignant  retreat,  much 
less  for  reproaches. 

"  Look  'ere,  girl,"  he  began  hoarsely,  "  your 
brother  Bob 's  in  trouble,  an'  you  're  the  only 
blarsted  swipe  as  can  'elp  'im.  S'  'elp  me  Gawd, 
this  yere  is  true,  ev'ry  word  on  it,  an'  no  fake. 
Wot?  eh?  Were  is  'ee?  Wy,  'ee  's  down  China 
Run  way.  'Ee 's  waitin'  there.  Waitin'  for 
wot?  Wy,  blarst — I  mean  'ee 's  awaitin'  fur 
the  stranger.  Wot  stranger  ?  Wy,  the  stranger 
as  you  've  to  run  down  through  the  fog  to  the 
Isle  o'  Dogs." 


A  Thames  Etching.  107 

Hoarse  explanations,  with  remonstrances  on 
the  paA  of  Madge,  ensued,  but  at  last  she  both 
understood  and  agreed.  She  had  been  brought 
up  in  full  recognition  of  that  cardinal  rule  that 
many  things  have  to  be  done  in  life  without 
knowing  the  why  and  the  wherefore.  She  be- 
lieved in  the  present  emergency,  and  understood 
why  the  task  of  conveying  the  stranger  down- 
stream could  be  intrusted  to  no  Poolite  under 
a  cloud.  She  was  to  go  down  to  the  sadly 
miscalled  Larkwhistle  Wharf,  where  she  would 
find  a  boat  in  charge  of  a  man.  In  the  stern 
would  be  the  "bundle."  She  was  not  to  speak 
to  this  "  bundle  "  on  any  account,  and  was  not 
to  worry  "  it  "  with  curious  looks.  She  was  to 
row  down-stream  till  off  Pig  Point  in  the  Isle 
of  Dogs,  and  wait  off  shore  till  another  boat 
joined  her,  and  relieved  her  of  her  freight.  The 
man,  a  friendly  lighterman,  would  act  as  look- 
out and  bow-pilot. 

"Wot  about  the  weddin',  father?"  said 
Madge,  somewhat  reluctantly,  as  she  was  about 
to  leave. 

Mr.  Robins  put  down  the  bottle  of  "  Aunt 
Maria,"  from  which  he  had  just  taken  a  hoarse 
gurgling,  salival  swig. 


io8  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

"  Oh  —  ah  —  to  be  sure  —  wot  about  the  wed- 
din' !  Ha,  ha  !  Well,  I  'm  blarsted  if  I  know 
if  my  noomerous  parlyhairymentary  dooties  — 
hiccotigh  and  choke  —  Yes,  by  Goramity,  I  'm 
bl.  .  .  ." 

Madge  did  not  wait  to  hear  any  more.  She 
had  done  her  duty  so  far,  and  the  sooner  the 
rest  of  it  was  fulfilled  the  better  content  would 
she  be. 

She  could  not  leave,  however,  without  a 
parting  shot.  Dick  Robins  heard  her  voice  as 
she  vanished  down-stairs  :  "  Remember,  father, 
if  you  and  '  Aunt  Maria'  come  together  on 
Saturday,  you  won't  be  allowed  in ! " 

When  she  reached  Larkwhistle  Wharf  she 
was  perspiring  heavily.  The  brooding  thunder 
overhead,  the  stagnant  atmosphere,  the  airless, 
suffocating  fog,  made  existence  a  burden  and 
action  a  misery.  Movement  on  the  water,  how- 
ever, promised  some  relief. 

There  was  no  one  on  the  wharf,  nothing 
beside  it  except  a  boat  in  which  a  muffled 
figure  crouched  in  the  stern-sheets,  with  a  tall 
man  seated  upright  in  the  bow.  This  was  her 
boat,  clearly. 

As  she  stepped  across  the  gunwale,  Madge 


I^  Thames  Etching.  109 

started  and  trembled.  For  a  moment  she 
thought  she  recognised,  in  the  silent  surly 
lighterman,  no  other  than  Ned  Bull;  but  when 
she  saw  that  he  looked  away,  indifferent  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned,  and  noticed  that  his 
hair  was  black  and  curly,  and  that  he  had  a 
long  beard,  her  sudden  suspicion  and  fear 
lapsed  into  mere  uneasiness.  As  for  the  other 
passenger,  he  was  evidently  determined  to  be- 
tray himself  neither  by  word  nor  by  gesture. 

In  silence,  save  for  the  occasional  splash  of 
an  oar  and  the  steady  gurgling  wash  at  the 
bows,  Madge  rowed  the  boat  down-stream. 
Thrice  she  was  unpleasantly  conscious  of  the 
hot  breath  of  the  lighterman  upon  her  cheek ; 
at  the  third  lime,  and  without  looking  round, 
she  quietly  asked  him  to  keep  a  steady  look, 
out  in  front  of  him,  as  in  such  a  fog  an  acci- 
dent might  occur  at  any  moment. 

At  last  she  guessed  that  she  was  off  the  Isle 
of  Dogs.  She  was  glad.  Not  only  was  she 
exhausted  with  the  heat  and  labour,  but  some- 
what anxious  now  about  the  condition  of  the 
boat,  a  rotten  tub  at  the  best.  It  had  begun 
to  leak,  and  the  chill  muddy  water  clammed  her 
ankles.     Suddenly,  through  the  fog,  she  heard 


1 10  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

the  lighterman  give  a  peculiar  double-whistle. 
Almost  immediately  afterwards  a  boat,  rowed 
swiftly  by  two  men,  shot  alongside. 

The  next  moment  the  lighterman  was  aboard 
the  new-comer.  Once  seated,  he  leaned  over 
and  whispering  hoarsely  to  Madge  to  row 
straight  on,  after  turning  the  boat's  bow  shore- 
ward, told  her  that  as  soon  as  she  came  to  a 
pier  she  was  to  let  the  other  passenger  out. 
The  man  had  scarce  finished  speaking  before 
he  and  his  companions  became  invisible  in  the 
mist. 

Madge  was  again  alarmed.  The  voice,  sure- 
ly, was  the  voice  of  Ned  Bull.  She  could  have 
sworn  to  it,  and  yet  — .'' 

Wiping  the  sweat  from  her  forehead,  and 
pausing  on  her  oars  for  a  moment  to  listen 
to  the  distant  moan  and  billowy  hollow  roar 
of  the  thunder,  which  had  at  last  broken  its 
brooding  silence,  she  noticed  suddenly  that 
the  leakage  was  rapidly  becoming  serious. 
The  water  was  high  above  her  ankles,  and 
was  swiftly  rising.  A  gurgling  sound  behind 
her  betrayed  where  the  danger  lay.  The  boat 
had  been  plugged,  and  the  plug  had  just  re- 
cently been  removed ! 


^  Thames  Etching,  m 

Barely  had  she  realised  this  when  the  dingy 
raked  up  against  a  jagged  spike,  and  began  to 
settle  down. 

She  knew  it  all  now,  all  except  the  mystery  of 
this  taciturn,  moveless  stranger.  So,  Ned  Bull 
was  to  have  his  revenge.  But  the  need  of 
prompt  action  brought  all  her  energies  into 
play.  "  Now  then,  you  there,"  she  cried  angrily 
to  her  mute  fellow-passenger,  "  you  've  got  ter 
move  if  you  don't  want  to  fill  yer  boots  wi' 
bottom-mud.  We  're  sinkin',  d  'ye  'ear  .-*.... 
Drat  the  bloomin'  cove,  'ee  's  asleep  !     Hi !  " 

But  here  there  was  a  lurch  and  a  rush  of 
water.  The  boat  collapsed,  as  though  it  were 
a  squeezed  sponge. 

No  sooner  had  Madge  found  her  breath 
after  her  submersion  than  she  struck  out  to- 
wards and  made  a  dive  for  her  companion,  who 
was  evidently  unable  to  swim,  and  was  fast 
drowning. 

A  minute  later  she  had  grasped  him  by  his 
rags.  She  was  conscious  at  the  same  moment 
of  a  red  light  piercing  the  gloom :  the  bow-light 
of  a  barge-bug  churning  splutteringly  against  the 
current  and  towing  a  half-empty  hoy  up-stream. 
She  gave  a  loud  cry  for  help,  and  then  another 


112  Madge  o'  the  Pool: 

that  was  more  like  a  shriek.  The  second  was 
the  result  of  a  discovery  that  she  had  just  made. 
The  body  in  her  grip  was  not  that  of  a  living 
man,  nor  even  of  a  man  who  had  just  died. 
It  was  a  corpse,  stiff  and  chill. 

The  shock  terrified  her.  For  a  moment  she 
beheved  that  she  had  been  made  accessory  to 
some  foul  murder.  She  let  go  of  the  hideous 
bundle  of  rag-clothed  flesh  she  was  upholding 
as  best  she  could.  Another  moment,  and  the 
corpse  would  have  been  sucked  under  and 
swept  down-stream :  a  vague  instinct  made 
Madge  suddenly  reach  forward  and  grip  the 
body  again. 

The  lights  of  the  tug  and  the  green  and  red 
lanterns  of  the  hoy  now  streamed  right  upon 
her.  Weighted  as  she  was  with  her  soaked 
clothes,  and  the  burden  of  her  close  on  seven 
months'  motherhood,  she  struggled  not  only  to 
withstay  the  current,  which  fortunately  was 
sweeping  her  steadily  towards  the  hoy,  but  to 
keep  the  corpse  from  sinking  until  at  least  she 
could  see  it  clear.  Still,  the  strain  was  too 
great,  and  she  was  just  about  to  let  go,  when  a 
broad  ray  of  light  flashed  full  athwart  the  dead 
face. 


A  Thames  Etching.  113 

It  was  that  of  Jim  Shaw,  her  husband. 

For'' a  moment  the  world  reeled.  Death 
called  to  her  out  of  the  windy  darkness  over- 
head, out  of  the  rushing  river,  out  of  the  sea- 
reaches  beyond;  Death  sang  in  her  ears,  and 
held  her  body  and  soul  as  in  a  vice;  Death 
was  in  her  heart,  in  her  brain,  on  her  lips,  in 
the  dull  glaze  of  her  staring  eyes. 

Suddenly  a  mad  rage  swept  her  back  into 
the  tide  of  agony  that  was  life.  With  a  swift 
gesture  she  raised  the  head  of  the  corpse,  and 
stared  wildly  into  the  lightless  unrecognising 
eyes.  The  wash  of  the  water  and  her  grasp 
had  loosened  the  rags  in  which  Jim  had  been 
disguised,  and  she  saw  the  purple  bruise  and 
gaping  knife-thrust  wound  through  which  his 
young  life  had  gone. 

With  a  long  terrible  cry  of  despair  Madge  let 
go  the  body  of  her  beloved,  and  herself  sank 
back  into  the  water,  as  a  dying  woman,  after  a 
last  flicker  of  life,  might  fall  back  into  the 
pillows.  If  all  had  occurred  a  little  earlier  or 
a  little  later,  she  would  have  been  drowned 
then  and  there,  and  have  suflfered  no  more. 

The  man  at  the  helm  on  the  tug-boat  caught 
sight  of  her,  and  yelled  to  the  man  at  the  bow 

6 


1 14  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

of  the  hoy.  The  bargeman  missed  her,  owing 
to  the  rapid  slush  and  surge  of  the  churned 
water  alongside ;  but  his  comrade  at  the  stern 
caught  at  the  swirling  clothes  with  a  bill-hook, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  she  was  lying  unconscious 
on  the  deck  of  "  The  Golden  Hope."  Her  res- 
cuers had  seen  nothing  of  the  rowboat,  nor  even 
of  the  body  to  which  she  had  clung ;  but  they 
strained  their  eyes  and  ears  lest  any  other  un- 
fortunates should  be  in  need  of  succour. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Madge  that  there  was  a 
woman  on  board.  The  wife  of  the  master  of 
"The  Golden  Hope"  was  not,  like  so  many 
of  the  Poolites,  merely  a  female,  but  a  true 
woman. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  just  before  the 
break  of  dawn,  a  man-child  was  prematurely 
born  into  the  world,  in  the  stuffy  deck-house 
of  the  barge.  It  was  born  dead :  "  an'  a  pre- 
cious good  thing  too,  drat  it  for  its  imperence 
in  a-coming  where  it  wasn't  wanted,"  as  Mrs. 
Hawkins  of  "The  Golden  Hope"  philosophi- 
cally remarked.  She  had  understood  at  once 
that  the  new-comer  was  not  born  in  lawful  wed- 
lock. Had  the  little  one  lived,  had  it  even 
been  born  alive  and  breathed  feebly  for  a  brief 


^A  Thames  Etching.  115 

season,  the  good  woman  would  not  only  have 
lamented  its  decease,  but  would  have  kept 
close  to  the  letter  of  the  law.  As  it  was,  she 
had  a  hurried  colloquy  with  her  husband,  a 
circumlocutory  argument  to  the  effect  that  the 
poor  young  mother  might  as  well  be  saved  all 
the  shame  and  trouble,  and  perhaps  worse. 

Mr.  Peter  Hawkins  listened  gravely,  nodded 
once  or  twice  in  an  uninterested  way,  spat 
once  cautiously,  then  again  meditatively,  and, 
finally,  emphatically.  He  left  the  deck-house, 
and  in  a  minute  or  two  returned  with  a  large 
and  heavy  brick. 

The  dawn  broke  as  "  The  Golden  Hope " 
entered  and  passed  through  the  Pool.  A  soft 
tender  wave  of  daffodil  light  blotted  out  the 
eastern  stars.  The  rigging  and  masts  of  the 
vessels  at  the  docks  and  in  the  river  became 
magically  distinct,  and  the  red  and  yellow 
lanterns  flared  gaudily.  Here  and  there  a 
green  lantern-light  danced  along  a  narrow 
surface  of  dark  water  fast  turning  into  a  hue 
of  slate.  A  dull  noise  came  from  the  city  on 
either  side,  though  it  seemed  asleep. 

On  the  river  there  was  silence,  save  for  an 
indiscriminate    grinding    noise   from    a    large 


Ii6  Madge  o'  the  Pool: 

Baltic  screw  steamer,  timed  to  sail  at  sunrise ; 
and,  on  a  China  tea-clipper,  a  Malay  singing 
shrilly,  with  fantastic  choric  variations  of  a 
strange  uncanny  savagery. 

As  the  barge  slump-slushed  through  the 
deepest  part  of  the  Pool,  a  small  packet  was 
dropped  overboard.  It  sank  immediately.  This 
package  was,  in  the  view  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Haw- 
kins, a  cold  little  body  with  a  heavy  brick  tied 
round  its  feet;  to  its  mother,  who  had  just  re- 
turned to  full  consciousness,  the  burial  was  as 
that  of  her  own  joy,  her  own  life. 

Madge  was  much  too  weak  to  move,  even 
if  kindly  Mrs.  Hawkins  had  hinted  that  her 
absence  would  be  preferable  to  her  company. 
The  woman  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  poor  lass, 
with  her  great  eyes  filled  with  grief  and  longing 
and  despair,  with  at  times,  too,  a  wild  light  which 
looked  like  passionate  hate. 

She  had  had  a  talk  with  her  husband,  and 
had  decided  to  keep  Madge  with  them  till  the 
barge  reached  Sunbury,  where  she  had  a  sister, 
who  in  the  summer  months  kept  a  small  tea 
and  ale  house  for  her  own  benefit  and  the 
refreshment  of  cheap  trippers  and  wayfarers. 
There  slie  would  leave  the  girl  for  a  time,  in 


A  Thames  Etching.  117 

care  of  Polly  'Awkins.  If  Madge  could  pay 
for  fier  keep  so  much  the  better ;  if  not,  why 
then  o'  God's  grace  she  and  Polly  betwixt  them 
would  provide  for  her  for  a  bit  till  she  could 
look  round. 

And  at  Sunbury  in  due  course  poor  Madge 
was  left.  She  had  become  a  different  woman  in 
the  few  days  which  succeeded  the  death  of  Jim 
and  the  premature  birth  and  loss  of  the  child 
of  their  love.  A  frost  had  come  over  her 
youth.  She  was  so  still  and  strange  that,  at 
first,  good,  kindly,  superabundantly  stout  Miss 
Hawkins  was  quite  awed  by  her.  The  woman's 
generous  kindness  at  last  broke  down  the  girl's 
reserve,  and  the  whole  story  was  confided  to 
her.  There  was  something  so  romantic  in  it 
to  Polly  Hawkins,  the  very  breath  of  wild 
romance  indeed,  that,  for  all  her  disapproval 
and  misapprehension  of  Madge's  action  in  the 
matter  of  a  legalised  union,  she  was  completely 
won  over.  Never,  even  in  the  "  Family  Astoun- 
der  "  or  the  "  West  End  Mirror,"  monthly  parts 
or  old  bound  volumes  of  which  she  was  wont 
to  pore  over  in  the  winter  nights,  had  she  come 
across  anything  that  stirred  her  so  much.  But 
she  passed  from  her  high  vicarious  excitement 


Ii8  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

into  something  resembling  the  emotional  state 
of  a  participant  in  a  tragedy  in  real  life,  when, 
one  wild  rain-swept  evening  late  in  August, 
all  the  bitter  pain  and  agony  and  passion  of 
Madge's  ruined  life  broke  out  in  revolt. 

She  had  only  one  wish  now,  she  declared, 
only  one  object :  to  be  revenged  on  her  father, 
and,  above  all,  on  Ned  Bull.  She  was  no 
longer  a  girl  with  a  haven  of  happiness  ahead ; 
she  was  a  wrecked  woman,  with  a  choice  be- 
tween going  to  pieces  on  the  breakers  or  being 
engulfed  in  a  quicksand.  Since  all  was  ruin 
ahead,  was  she  to  surrender  everything,  to  go 
tamely  hence,  a  victim  with  no  will  or  power 
of  retribution  ?  No,  she  swore,  as  with  flashing 
eyes  and  erect  figure  she  moved  to  and  fro  in 
the  kitchen  parlour,  she  would  not  be  content 
till  she  had  made  her  father  pay  her  for  his 
crime,  pay  with  his  life,  and  till  she  saw  Ned 
Bull  swing  on  the  gallows. 

Miss  Hawkins  saw  that  she  was  in  earnest; 
passionately,  insanely  in  earnest;  and  she 
trembled.  She  had  come  to  love  the  girl,  and 
though  her  departure  would  be  a  loss  both  to 
her  and  her  pocket  (for  Madge  had  communi- 
cated with  Jim's  comrades,  who  had  raised  a 


A  Thames  Etching.  iig 

handsome  subscription  for  her  when  they 
found- that  officially  nothing  could  be  done),  she 
would  not  be  ill  at  ease.  But  now  —  now  it 
would  be  to  let  a  murderess  loose.  Why,  some 
day  it  would  all  be  in  the  papers  !  A  prospec- 
tive perusal  of  certain  head-lines  brought  out 
a  cold  perspiration  upon  her  neck  and  fore- 
head :  "  'Orrible  murder  in  the  Docks,"  "  Last 
Confession,"  "  Execution  of  Madge  Robins," 
"What  did  the  Bargee  do  with  the  Baby?" 
"Testimony  of  Polly  Hawkins,"   and  so  forth. 

Miss  Hawkins  rose,  looked  at  Madge  in  fear 
and  trembling  and  deep  admiration,  all  merged 
in  a  profound  and  loving  pity.  But  she  had 
not  the  gift  of  expression,  and  all  she  could 
say  was:  "My  dear,  'ave  some  black-currant 
cordial." 

Madge,  however,  understood.  The  tears 
broke  out  in  a  flood  from  her  eyes,  and  with 
sobs  and  a  shaking  frame  she  threw  herself  in 
the  arms  of  her  friend. 

The  following  day  was  a  Sunday.  As  much 
for  distraction  as  for  any  other  reason,  Miss 
Hawkins  persuaded  Madge  to  go  with  her  to 
church.  Madge  had  never  been  in  a  church, 
and  for  the  first  part  of  the  service  she  was 


120  Madge  o'  the  Pool: 

too  shy  and  bewildered  to  understand,  much  less 
to  enjoy,  what  she  saw  and  heard.  The  sing- 
ing soothed  her,  and  some  of  tlie  prayers  left 
haunting  echoes  in  her  brain.  The  clergyman 
was  that  rare  individual,  a  fervent  Christian 
and  a  perfectly  simple  man,  who  did  not  fulfil 
his  priestly  duties  perfunctorily,  but  as  though 
he  were  a  wise  and  loving  gardener  watering 
the  precious  flowers  of  a  strict  but  beloved 
Master.  She  followed,  or  cared  to  follow, 
very  little  of  what  he  said;  but  his  earn- 
estness impressed  her.  Through  all  his  dis- 
course sounded,  like  the  wild  moan  and  wail 
of  the  sea-wind,  the  words  of  his  text :  "  For- 
give us  our  sins,  as  we  forgive  our  enemies." 
"  Then  shall  we  be  together  with  the  Lord " 
were  the  last  words  she  heard  the  vicar  utter, 
before  the  congregation  rose  at  the  benedic- 
tion. 

In  discussing  the  matter  later  with  Miss 
Hawkins  she  did  not  gain  much  enlightenment. 
Miss  Hawkins  said  that  religion  was  meant  to 
be  took  like  gin,  with  a  good  allowance  of 
water.  "It  didn't  do  to  take  things  jist  as 
they  were  spoke. 

"  Vicars  an'  sich  like  were  paid  same  as  other 


J^  Thames  Etching.  I2I 

folk,  an'  their  business  was  to  deal  out  salva- 
tion dashed  wi'  bell-fire. 

"  My  dear,"  she  added,  "  there 's  nary  a  man 
livin',  be  he  a  vicar  or  only  a  Ranting  Johnny, 
who  does  n't  promise  us  more  of  both  one  and 
the  other  than  there 's  any  need  for." 

Madge  did  not  sleep  much  that  night.  She 
was  vaguely  troubled.  The  fire  of  her  wrath 
burned  low,  and  though  she  heaped  coals  of 
remembrance  upon  it  the  flare-up  was  a 
failure. 

At  breakfast  next  morning  she  asked  Miss 
Hawkins  abruptly  if  she  had  heard  the  vicar 
say  "  Forgive  us  our  sins,  as  we  forgive  our 
enemies,"  and,  if  so,  what  she   thought  of  it. 

Miss  Hawkins  finished  her  tea.  Medita- 
tively she  scooped  out  the  sugar  and  slowly 
refilled  the  cup. 

"  Not  much,"  she  said. 

The  rest  of  the  meal  was  taken  in  silence. 
The  day  was  so  glorious  that  Madge  wandered 
forth  into  a  field  near  the  river,  unwittingly 
elate  with  returning  youth  and  strength,  and 
quick  to  answer  to  the  sun's  summons  to  the 
blood  and  the  spirit. 

She  lay  for  a  long  time  through  the  noon 


122  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

heat,  instinctively  revelling  in  the  flood  of  sun- 
shine. The  sky  was  a  dome  of  deepening  blue, 
flecked  with  a  few  scattered  greyniare's-tails ; 
the  meadows  were  lush  with  the  second  hay 
and  autumnal  wild-flowers.  Beyond  her  feet 
the  river  swept  slowly  by,  the  golden  light 
falling  along  its  surface  and  at  once  transmuted 
into  silver  and  azure ;  while  at  the  margins  the 
overhanging  trees  threw  a  cloud  of  flickering 
green  shadows  into  the  moving  movelessness 
below. 

It  was  almost  happiness  to  lie  there  so 
quietly,  and  watch  the  swallows  swooping  to 
and  fro,  the  cows  standing  knee-deep  in  the 
shallows  and  flapping  lazily  their  long  tails,  the 
purple  dragon-fly  shooting  from  reedy  pool  to 
pool.  For  the  time  being,  the  agony  of  re- 
membrance was  dulled. 

More  and  more  Madge  perplexed  herself 
by  pondering  over  what  she  had  heard  in 
church.  She  had  never  felt  as  she  had  done 
to-day.  There  was  a  new  peace,  a  new  hope 
almost,  in  her  troubled  mind,  though  it  had 
not  yet  taken  definite  form.  The  strange  and 
bafiiing  concourse  of  her  thoughts,  however, 
left  her  weary.     The  whole  ebb  and  flow  found 


A  Thames  Etching.  123 

expression,  perhaps,  in  the  sole  words  she 
spoke  aloud,  — 

"  No,  that  I  can't :  I  can't  make  much  of  it. 
But  I  do  see  that  going  back  to  that  hell  of 
life  at  the  Pool,  even  wi'  letting  my  father  be, 
an'  knockin'  out  the  knifin'  o'  Ned  Bull  an' 
leavin'  'im,  as  the  parson  says,  to  Goramity,  is 
not  the  way  to  get  alongside  o'  Jim  again,  let 
alone  that  babby  wich  he  '11  'ave  'igh  an'  dry 
sure  as  dixey." 

It  was  nigh  upon  sundown  before  Madge 
clearly  saw  her  way  of  salvation.  "  She  'd  got 
to  die  somehow ;  "  but  all  her  instincts  were  in 
revolt  against  that  inevitable  transference  to 
the  earth  which  would  be  her  fate  if  death 
came  upon  her  at  Polly  Hawkins's  or  any  other 
house.  •'  She  could  n't  abide  the  land  :  she 
knew  that:  not  for  all  the  blessedness  of  it  ten 
times  over." 

Shortly  before  sunset  she  descried  a  boy 
going  along  the  Sunburj-  towpath.  She  called 
him,  and  for  sixpence  he  readily  agreed  to 
write  a  pencilled  note  at  her  dictation  and 
thereafter  deliver  it  to  Miss  Hawkins. 

When  the  boy  was  gone,  Madge  waited  a 
little  while.     She  watched  the  sun  grow  large 


124  Madge  o'  the  Pool : 

and  red,  and  fall  through  the  river-haze  into 
the  very  middle  of  the  river-reaches  higher  up. 
Then  she  found  herself  listening  intently  to  a 
corncrake  calling  hoarsely  close  by  through  the 
tall  wheat. 

It  seemed  so  little  to  do,  and  after  all  so 
little  even  to  say  farewell  to. 

A  brief  while  after  sunset  a  great  red  and 
yellow  hoy,  with  a  tattered  brown  sail  out- 
spread aloft  to  catch  what  breeze  there  was 
that  would  help  the  slow  current,  came  heavily 
down-stream.  It  was  laden  with  rj'e,  and  the 
man  and  boy  on  deck  were  drowsy  with  the 
heat  and  labour  of  the  day.  Neither  of  them 
felt  the  slight  shock  when  the  dilapidated  bow- 
keel  caught  upon  some  obstruction. 

It  was  late  that  night  when  the  "  Lively 
Nancy,"  in  tow  of  a  fat,  unwieldy  little  barge- 
bug,  slumped  heavily  through  the  jumble  in  the 
Pool.  There  was  a  heavy  slashing  criss-cross 
of  water  above,  and,  below  the  surface,  a 
serpentine  twisting  and  dovetailing,  with  cruel 
downward  suctions.  The  tide  was  running  up 
like  a  mill-race ;  the  river-current  and  a  high 
westerly  wind  tore  their  way  seaward. 

In  this  fierce  conflict  the  bent  keel  of  the 


A,  Thames  Etching.  125 

"  Lively   Nancy "   was  at  last    cleared  of  its 
obstrucfion. 

For  an  hour  or  more  thereafter,  till  the  river- 
police  discovered  it,  a  woman's  body  was 
tossed  to  and  fro  in  the  Pool,  idly  drifting  and 
bumping  against  the  slimy  piers,  along  the 
gaunt,  deserted  wharves. 


THE   COWARD. 


The   Coward  : 

An  Episode  of  the  Franco-Arab  War. 


There  was  not  an  eddy  of  air,  yet  through 
the  darkness  of  a  clouded  night  the  sound  of 
water  in  motion  was  audible.  As  Colonel  Le 
Marchant,  mounted  on  his  white  Arab,  a 
present  from  the  Sheik  of  Touaroua,  listened 
intently,  he  could  hear  that  the  slight  wish- 
wash  of  the  water  did  not  come  from  the 
margin  of  the  Chott.  Clearly,  the  sound  was 
from  far  out  on  the  stillness  of  the  vast  placid 
lake.  An  immense  breath  came  from  the 
desert.  There  was  no  wind,  and  the  silence 
was  terrible :  yet  in  that  muffled  breath,  that 
sigh,  there  wer^  many  suspirations.  To  the 
south  of  the  Chott,  sand,  —  leagues  of  stony, 
herbless  sand ;  to  the  east,  sand,  long  rolling 
hills  of  desert-surf  become  hard  as  marl;  to 
the  west,  sandy  pastures,  freshening  ever  and 

9 


130  The  Coward. 

again  to  green  spaces,  with  small  oases  many 
leagues  distant  from  each  other,  the  desert 
itself  stretching  at  last  across  the  fron- 
tier of  Morocco  to  where  Figuig  lay,  the 
"  boon  of  the  wanderer ; "  to  the  north,  scanty 
pasture-lands,  commanded  by  the  military 
station  of  El  Khadthera,  the  oasis  of  Sidi 
Khalifa,  sacred  to  fanatics,  and  the  hill-villages 
below  Saida,  future  capital  of  the  South- 
Oranian  Atlas. 

From  the  south,  from  the  east,  from  the 
west,  from  the  north,  came  that  vague  breath 
through  the  silence.  The  panther  and  the 
jackal  moved  along  the  northerly  margins  of 
the  Chott,  for  the  wind  had  been  from  the 
south,  and  that  way  still  sniffed  the  antelopes, 
clustered  in  tremulous  groups  beyond  the  tall 
sedges  where  they  could  hear  the  wild  boar 
snorting  and  stamping.  Night-wayfarers, 
mounted  on  mecharis  or  leading  their  camels 
in  long  lines,  passed  unseen  along  the  sandy 
ways,  eager  to  gain  haven,  if  possible,  ere  the 
storm  should  break. 

The  storm  which  was  feared,  however,  was 
not  of  the  atmosphere.  Rumor  had  gone 
abroad    that    Bou-Amama    Bel-Arbi  had    not 


The  Coward.  iti 

only  openly  defied  the  hated  French  usurpers, 
but  "^ad  drawn  into  ambush  an  officer  of  the 
all-powerful  Bureau  Arabe  with  his  escort,  and 
slain  every  infidel  of  the  company.  This 
meant  war ;  and,  in  war,  peaceful  travellers 
were  subject  to  spoliation  from  friends  and 
foes  alike.  Provisions,  transport ;  neither  the 
French  coming  from  El  Riod,  from  Saida,  or 
from  El  Khadthera,  nor  the  insurgent  Arabs 
under  the  Man  of  God,  Bou-Amama,  could  be 
expected  to  resist  temptation  in  the  hour  of 
need. 

But  by  the  island  in  the  narrow  strait,  to  the 
north  of  the  great  Chott  El  Chergui,  no  one 
passed.  Colonel  Le  Marchant,  it  is  true, 
underwent  fhreefold  risk  by  adventuring  there 
at  that  hour  and  alone ;  but  in  the  very  cir- 
cumstances that  conduced  to  these  risks  lay 
also  sufficient  warrant  of  safety. 

Eugene  Frangois  Le  Marchant  was  a  man  of 
proved  courage,  familiar  with  the  vicissitudes 
of  military  life  in  Algeria,  with  the  perils  of 
man-hunting  and  wild-sport  in  the  Sahara.  If 
he  feared  anything  this  night,  it  was  not  the 
lion  or  the  panther  that  might  venture  on  a 
sudden  rearward  attack  ;  still  less  the  stealthy 


132  The  Coward. 

Arab  marauder,  or  roaming  Touareg  ;  not  even 
insurgent  tribesmen  already  leagued  with  or  on 
their  way  to  join  this  fanatic  Bou-Amama 
Bel-Arbi,  with  his  Allah-inspired  mission  to 
drive  the  French  from  the  southlands.  His 
fear  was  that  he  might  be  seen  of  some  of  his 
comrades  or  troops  from  El  Khadthera. 

Had  the  night  been  clear,  he  would  not  have 
ridden  to  his  rendezvous  on  his  conspicuous 
white  charger,  but  have  come  later,  in  disguise, 
and  covertly.  As  it  was,  he  knew  that  in  the 
obscurity  of  this  thunder-heavy  night  Vent-dii- 
Paradis  would  not  be  recognisable  fifty  yards 
away,  while  in  the  unequalled  swiftness  of  the 
beautiful  mare  was  prompt  escape  from  any 
sudden  emergency. 

As  he  leaned  from  his  saddle,  and  listened 
with  suspended  breath,  he  gave  at  last  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  wash  on  the  Chott 
having  passed  into  a  steady  swish-swish,  a 
clumsy  boat,  little  better  than  a  side-boarded 
raft,  grounded  in  the  sand,  within  a  few  feet 
from  where  the  white  mare  impatiently  sniffed 
the  air  and  pawed  the  loose  soil. 

"Is  that  you,  Abdallah  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice,  and  in  Arabic. 


-^      The  Coward.  133 

"Kis  l.Moulaiy 

"Where  is  Nakhala?" 

'*  She  is  not  with  me.  Nay,  Sidi,  do  not 
curse :  I  tell  you  the  truth.  The  Blind  Sheik 
went  north  this  morning." 

"What,  has  Mahomet  El-Djebeli  gone  to 
join  Bou-Amama  ? " 

"  Even  so." 

"May  Allah  keep  him  blind  through  all 
eternity!     What  has  he  done  with  Nakhala?" 

"  She  too  has  gone  —  of  course." 

"  What  message  do  you  bring  ?  " 

"  Mahomet  El-Djebeli  is  of  the  tribe  of  the 
Ouled-Sidi-Sheikh." 

"  What  dt)es  that  mean  ?  " 

"  That  he  will  do  the  bidding  of  him  who  is 
now  chief  of  his  tribe  as  well  as  leader  of  the 
Faithful.  What  Bou-Amama  Bel-Arbi  says, 
that  will  Mahomet-ibn-Mahomet-Eb-Djebel  ful- 
fil. And  Bou-Amama  has  bidden  Mahomet 
give  his  adopted  daughter  Nakhala  to  Si 
Suleiman  ben  Khaddour." 

A  deep  curse  broke  from  the  lips  of  Colonel 
Le  Marchant.  For  a  few  moments  thereafter 
there  was  silence,  save  for  the  slight  ripple  of 
the  water  of  the  Chott,  the  restless  pawing  of 


134  The  Coward. 

Veni-du-Paradis,  and  the  distant  howling  of  a 
jackal. 

"  Suleiman  ben  Khaddour  is  our  sworn  ally," 
he  said  at  last,  in  a  harsh  voice.  "  Is  it  not 
true  that  even  now  he  is  at  Ain  Sili-sifa,  keep- 
ing an  eye  on  those  rebellious  fellows  at  G^ry- 
ville  ?  " 

Abdallah  shifted  uneasily,  and  muttered 
some  evasive  reply. 

"  Well,"  resumed  the  Colonel,  "  I  will  soon 
find  something  for  Suleiman  to  do.  Tell  me 
now  what  else  Nakhala  said." 

"  That  she  will  try  and  see  you,  about  an 
hour  before  dawn,  at  the  place  of  the  fallen 
columns,  to  the  north  of  the  village  of  Sidi 
Khalifa." 

Colonel  Le  Marchant  could  not  repress  a 
sound  of  triumph. 

"  She  will  come  alone  —  she  will  be  alone, 
of  course  ?  " 

"  I  have  given  you  her  words,  Moulai^ 

"  Good.  Go  now,  Abdallah.  Come  to  me 
to-morrow  afternoon,  and  I  will  give  you  what 
will  more  than  recompense  you  for  all  you 
have  done  for  me.  But  when  you  leave  here 
I   wish  you   to  go   straight    to    Ain   Sifi-sifa. 


"^      The  Coward.  135 

Seelf  Si  Suleiman  ben  Khaddour,  and  tell  him 
that  I  wish  his  advice,  and  that  he  is  to  repair 
to  El  Khadthera  early  to-morrow." 

"But,  Sidi  Col'nell,  Si  Suleiman  is  —  " 

"  What  ?  " 

Again  Abdallah  muttered  indistinctly,  and 
made  a  noise  with  his  oar  as  though  to  distract 
attention. 

"  What  did  you  say,  Abdallah?  " 

"  I  said,  you  have  but  to  command,  Moiilai^ 

"  Now,  go ;  and  be  wary.  One  moment, 
Abdallah.  Suppose  Nakhala  cannot  come,  or 
if  anything  should  prevent  my  getting  to  the 
Ruins  in  time  for  the  appointment,  where  shall 
I  seek  her  ?  " 

But  by  this  time  Abdallah  had  oared  his 
craft  a  few  yards  away. 

"Under  the  green  flag  of  Bou-Amama  Bel- 
Arbi,"  he  cried,  as  guardedly  as  possible: 
adding,  below  his  breath,  "  or,  dog  of  a  Roumi, 
in  the  arms  of  Si  Suleiman." 

A  few  seconds  more,  and  the  Arab  was  out 
of  sight  in  the  darkness  that  brooded  over  the 
Chott  and  the  surrounding  waste.  Colonel  Le 
Marchant  walked  his  mare  a  few  steps,  and 
then  drew  rein  again,  pondering  deeply. 


136  The  Coward. 

Suddenly  Vent-du-Paradis  threw  back  her 
head,  and  sniffed  anxiously,  while  with  swift 
uneasy  motion  she  pawed  the  sand  and 
switched  her  long  white  tail  to  and  fro. 

The  Colonel  leant  forward,  and  listened 
intently.  There  was  not  a  sound  suggestive 
of  any  one  or  anything  approaching,  not  a 
yellow  spark  of  fl^me  anywhere  from  crouching 
panther  or  hyena.  Nevertheless,  the  mare 
became  more  and  more  uneasy. 

With  a  sudden  cry  the  horseman  brought 
his  spurs  against  her  flanks,  and  at  the  same 
time  shook  free  the  bridle. 

Vent-du-Paradis  swung  as  if  on  a  pivot,  and 
the  next  moment  shot  through  the  gloom  like 
a  flash  of  white  summer-lightning. 

In  less  than  a  minute  a  strange  thing  hap. 
pened.  Two  of  the  innumerable  small  sand- 
hillocks  near  the  margin  of  the  Chott  collapsed, 
and  simultaneously  a  black  mass  emerged  from 
each. 

Two  Arabs,  young  men,  almost  nude,  cau- 
tiously approached  each  other,  one  evidently  in 
some  pain,  though  not  seriously  hurt  —  he 
whom  the  French  colonel's  mare  had  trampled 
upon  in  the  first  spring  of  her  flight. 


-^      The  Coward.  137 

A-* few  words  were  rapidly  interchanged ; 
then  both  disappeared  in  the  gloom,  one  run- 
ning swiftly  to  the  west  of  El  Khadthera  and  the 
other  taking  the  more  circuitous  eastern  route. 

Meanwhile  Colonel  Le  Marchant  rapidly 
approached  the  fort.  As  he  rode,  he  made  up 
his  mind  what  he  would  do.  War,  he  argued, 
was  inevitable  now  that  poor  Lieutenant  Wim- 
brenner  and  his  company  had  been  snared 
and  massacred  by  Bou-Amama.  So,  despite 
the  urgent  instructions  sent  to  him  from  his 
superior  officer  at  Tiaret,  to  keep  the  peace  at 
all  hazards  till  the  French  forces  could  be 
strengthened,  and  above  all  to  conciliate  the 
tribesmen  ef  Geryville  and  the  neighbourhood 
(among  whom  Si  Suleiman  ben  Khaddour  was 
the  most  influential  man  in  authority),  he  per- 
suaded himself  that  what  would  practically  be 
his  abduction  of  Mahomet  El-Djebeli's  adopted 
daughter  would  not  be  an  act  of  treasonable 
selfishness.  In  fact,  he  added,  with  a  grim 
smile,  Nakhala  would  be  a  splendid  hostage, 
for  with  this  beautiful  desert-princess  in  his 
possession  he  could  control  the  wily  and 
dreaded  Suleiman  ben  Khaddour. 

His   heart  beat  quicker  as    he   thought   of 


138  The  Coward. 

Nakhala,  and  of  every  incident  connected  with 
her  since  first  they  had  met  and  he  had  heard 
her  story. 

Some  three  months  back  he  had  ridden  out 
alone  to  the  village-oasis  of  Sidi  Khalifa.  He 
had  spent  an  evening  hour  with  the  Sheik 
Okba,  and,  on  leaving,  had  found  himself  in  the 
company  of  Mahomet  El-Djebeli,  who,  with  his 
family,  was  returning  to  the  village  of  Ain 
Sifi-sifa.  The  Blind  Sheik,  as  Mahomet  was 
generally  called,  was  a  Moor  of  ancient 
Tlem^en  lineage.  In  his  younger  days  he  had 
been  resident  as  a  trader  among  the  Spaniards 
of  Oran,  and  had  even  made  a  journey  to  the 
southern  Spanish  ports  and  cities.  In  common 
with  many  of  the  better-class  Oranian  Moors, 
he  spoke  Spanish  fluently  and  could  converse 
in  French. 

During  the  time  of  God's  curse  upon  the 
land  —  the  awful  years  of  pestilence  and 
famine,  1866  and  1867,  when  over  two  hundred 
thousand  victims  perished  untimely  —  Mahomet 
El-Djebeli  was  in  the  region  known  as  the 
Metidja.  His  hfe  was  saved  by  a  Spanish 
settler,  who  not  only  nursed  him  through  an  at- 


-^      The  Coward.  139 

tack-'of  the  dreaded  cholera,  but  gave  him  shel- 
ter and  employment.  Early  in  1867  occurred 
the  earthquake  which  destroyed  the  most 
prosperous  villages  of  the  neighbourhood.  The 
farm  of  Perey  Valera  was  laid  in  ruins,  and  the 
worthy  Spaniard  killed  in  his  attempt  to  save 
his  dying  wife  from  among  the  debris  of  his 
tottering  walls.  The  sole  thing  that  Mahomet 
found  amid  the  desolation  that  had  been  Perey 
Valera's  prosperity  was  his  patron's  only  child, 
the  little  five-year  old  Dolores.  No  one 
claimed  the  child  ;  no  one  would  have  anything 
to  do  with  her,  for  Valera's  ruin  was  complete, 
alas,  even  before  the  earthquake  had  wrought 
its  culminating  havoc. 

Thus  it  was  that  Mahomet  El-Djebeli  took 
Dolores  Valera  as  his  adopted  daughter.  He 
went  first  to  his  own  people  on  the  lower  slope 
of  the  Djebel  Toumzait  near  Tlemgen,  and 
there  married. 

Thereafter  he  went  to  Cherchel  on  the  sea- 
coast,  but  was  driven  thence  by  the  French, 
with  whom  he  had  come  in  conflict.  He  settled 
at  a  village  near  Milianah.  There  occurred 
the  tragedy  which  altered  his  life.  A  French 
colonist  somehow  saw  and  fell  in  love  with  his 


140  The  Coward. 

wife,  and  when  Mahomet  found  that  Marghya 
had  been  unfaithful  with  the  colott,  he  waited 
his  opportunity  for  revenge,  and  uUimately 
killed  them  both.  He  fled  for  his  life,  but  he 
took  the  little  Dolores  with  him.  It  was 
shortly  after  this  that  the  last  outbreak  of  the 
insurrection  of  1871  took  place.  The  chief 
insurgents  were  the  hill-tribesmen  of  the  Beni- 
Manassir,  and  the  foremost  rebel  was  Maho- 
met-ed-Toumzait.  After  the  revolt  was  finally 
crushed,  there  was  no  peace  for  the  outlaw  in 
the  upper  provinces.  He  made  his  way  to  the 
Oranian  Sahara,  and  became  an  adopted  mem- 
ber of  the  Ouled-Sidi-Sheikh.  A  year  or  two 
before  he  lost  his  sight  through  a  gun-accident, 
he  had  taken  two  wives  unto  himself,  though 
neither  for  his  wives  nor  any  one  did  he  care 
aught  in  comparison  with  Dolores.  No  longer, 
however,  could  he  endure  the  infidel  name.  As 
the  girl  was  so  beautiful  and  of  extraordinary 
grace,  she  seemed  to  him  like  a  young  date- 
palm,  "  a  thing  of  joy  and  rich  promise  of 
peace,"  in  the  words  of  Abd-El-Kadr,  the  poet- 
patriot;   and  so  he  called  her  Nakhala. 

With    years,     Mahomet    of    Toumzait    had 
learned  wisdom.     Though  he  hated  the  French, 


The  Coward.  141 

he  saw  that  their  power  was  great  and  that 
AUalfpermitted  them  to  rule  in  the  land.  As 
Mahomet  El  Djebeli,  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
Ouled-Sidi-Sheikh,  he  was  safe  from  the  ven- 
geance of  French  law.  And  at  the  time  when 
he  visited  the  Sheik  Okba  of  Sidi  Khalifa,  and 
met  the  Roumi-Cheik  Le  Marchant,  there  were 
reasons  why  he  wished  to  cultivate  pleasant 
relations  with  the  foreign  commander. 

Thus,  instead  of  resenting  the  presence  of 
Colonel  Le  Marchant  on  the  night-journey  from 
Sidi  Khalifa,  Mahomet  was  courteously  urgent 
in  his  invitation.  The  French  officer  was 
eager,  on  his  part,  to  win  the  good  will  of  a 
man  who  could  be  either  a  useful  ally  or  a 
troublesome  enemy. 

But  when  half  way  to  Ain  Sifi-sifa  an  un- 
looked-for episode  happened.  A  band  of 
marauding  Touaregs  had  made  their  way 
northward,  and,  in  the  cloudy  night,  had  sur- 
rounded the  small  party  of  wayfarers.  Colonel 
Le  Marchant,  hearing  the  screams  of  a  woman 
close  by  him,  was  amazed  to  hear  it  followed 
by  an  appeal  to  him  first  in  Spanish,  then  in 
French.  The  next  moment  he  saw  a  girl  of 
extraordinary   beauty  by  his   side,  and,  scarce 


142  The  Coward. 

thinking  what  he  was  doing,  lifted  her  on  to 
his  high  Moorish  saddle.  The  rest  of  the 
party  was  almost  overpowered.  Drawing  his 
revolver,  Le  Marchant  soon  disposed  of  the 
two  Touaregs  nearest  him,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment was  out  and  away  upon  the  desert. 

He  reached  El  Khadthera  with  his  beautiful 
burden,  though  not  to  see  much  more  of  her ; 
for,  on  the  morrow,  Mahomet  El-Djebeli  ap- 
peared, having  bought  his  freedom  from  his 
captors.  Nevertheless,  there  had  been  time 
for  her  rescuer  to  learn  Nakhala's  story,  and 
to  fall  hopelessly,  passionately,  in  love  with 
the  Spanish  daughter  of  the  Blind  Sheik.  The 
love  was  returned,  and  from  the  first  moment. 
Eug&ne  Le  Marchant  was  her  hero  and  lover 
from  the  moment  when,  with  his  strong  arm 
round  her,  he  had  galloped  away  from  the 
Touaregs.  True,  Mahomet  speedily  veiled  her 
and  took  her  back  to  his  home,  but  already 
Nakhala  had  become  Dolores.  Love  called  to 
love,  and,  also,  blood  to  blood.  The  twain  had 
pledged  each  other,  with  solemn  words  of  fealty. 

Thereafter,  Le  Marchant  had  seen  the  girl 
three  or  four  times,  but  with  difficulty  and 
serious  peril.     Their  passion  grew   apace.     It 


The  Coward.  143 

had  become  a  flame  to  withstand  the  wind  of 
death  itself  when  the  fanatic  Bou-Amama  sud- 
denly preached  his  DJehad,  and,  a  few  weeks 
later,  massacred  Lieutenant  Wimbrenner  of 
the  Bureau  Arabe  and  his  small  escort.  The 
anti-French  feeling  was  at  its  height,  even 
among  the  still  nominally  loyal  tribesmen. 
Mahomet  El-Djebeli  forbade  any  communica- 
tion between  his  people  and  the  Roumi. 

Through  a  step-brother  of  Nakhala's,  Ab- 
dallah,  sworn  to  secrecy  and  won  to  service, 
Colonel  Le  Marchant  sent  word  to  his  beautiful 
Dolores  that  at  last  he  would  hesitate  no 
longer,  but  take  her  as  his  bride  in  the  face  of 
any  opposition  or  peril.  She  was  to  send  word 
through  A-bdallah  as  to  how  and  when  and 
where  they  were  to  meet  to  this  end. 

It  was  for  this  message  that,  on  this  sultry 
evening  in  April,  Colonel  Le  Marchant  had 
ridden  out  of  El  Khadthera  —  or  El  Kreider, 
as  the  French  call  it  —  and,  notwithstanding 
the  earnest  remonstrance  of  Major  Cazin,  with- 
out escort. 

It  did  not  take  long  for  Vent-du-Paradis  to 
reach    the  fortified  village.      As   the   Colonel 


144  The  Coward. 

passed  the  three  sentries  of  the  outer  lines  he 
asked  of  each  if  he  had  seen  any  one  come  or 
go  since  he,  the  Colonel,  had  ridden  out.  It 
was  with  satisfaction  he  learned  that  no  one 
had  been  seen. 

When  he  reached  his  quarters  he  astonished 
his  orderly  by  the  request  to  have  Vent-du- 
Paradis  ready  at  his  door  two  hours  before 
dawn.  Within,  he  found  Major  Cazin,  poring 
anxiously  over  a  despatch  just  to  hand,  calling 
for  immediate  care  on  the  part  of  the  garrison 
of  El  Khadthera.  Bou-Amama  had  not  been 
content  with  his  victory  over  poor  Wimbrenner, 
but  had  sacked  the  French  settlements,  and  was 
carrying  ruin  over  a  wide  region :  and  it  was  now 
doubtful  if  he  would  wait  Colonel  Le  Mason's 
column  marching  from  Tiaret.  In  this  event, 
he  might  be  expected  to  retreat  towards  the 
Sahara  with  his  booty  and  captives,  either  to 
rouse  the  tribes  in  a  more  thorough  manner,  or 
to  foil  his  pursuers  till  the  summer  fully  set  in. 
It  was  advisable  to  prevent  this,  even  apart 
from  the  imperative  need  to  rescue  the  captives, 
the  greater  portion  of  whom  were  French  and 
Spanish  women. 

No  one  knows  what  passed  between  Colonel 


The  Coward.  145 

Le  Marchant  and  Major  Cazin ;  but,  certainly, 
high  words  arose  when  the  latter  strongly 
pressed  the  immediate  despatch  of  troops  to 
occupy  the  village  of  Sidi  Khalifa,  particularly 
now  that,  as  the  Major  had  just  learned,  the 
Sheik  Okba  had  been  joined  by  Mahomet  El- 
Djebeli. 

"  At  the  first  sight  of  our  troops,"  he  urged, 
"  Mahomet  and  his  followers  will  decamp. 
Not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  will  be  left  in  Sidi 
Khalifa.  It  would  be  a  good  riddance,  for  the 
place  is  a  hotbed  of  treason  and  fanaticism, 
and,  once  destroyed,  things  would  go  better 
here,  even  apart  from  that  bloodthirsty  devil, 
Bou-Amama." 

This,  however,  was  just  what  Colonel  Le 
Marchant  wished  to  avoid  at  all  hazard.  If 
Nakhala  were  to  slip  from  his  grasp  now  he 
might  never  see  her  again. 

As  a  counter-movement  he  proposed  sending 
out  at  once  a  detachment  to  Ain  Sifi-sifa  to 
"bring  in  "  Si  Suleiman  ben  Khaddour. 

"  Good  heavens,  mon  colonel^^  exclaimed 
Major  Cazin,  exasperated,  "  that  would  be  the 
signal  for  revolt  all  over  the  North-Sahara.  In 
a  few  days  there  would  not  be  a   Frenchman 

10 


146  The  Coward. 

left  alive  on  this  side  of  the  Atlas  or  the  Aurfes. 
As  it  is,  our  countrymen  at  Gdryville  are  in 
hourly  peril  of  their  lives." 

"  Nonsense,  Major.  Come  .  .  .  excuse  my 
brusqueness,  but  I  know  what  I  am  about.  I 
am  determined  to  have  this  fellow  Suleiman 
under  my  eye.  I  have  already,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  ordered  him  to  come  here  to-morrow." 

Thus  much  was  overheard.  It  was  after 
this  that  angry  words  arose  between  the  two 
officers,  with  the  result  that  Major  Cazin  left 
his  colonel  in  high  dudgeon  and  went  straight 
to  his  own  apartment,  refusing  word  with  any 

one. 

Eugene  Le  Marchant  did  not  even  attempt 
to  sleep  that  night.  To  and  fro  he  walked  with 
feverish  restlessness.  Perhaps  the  thought 
of  the  wrong  he  was  about  to  do  Dolores 
Valera  troubled  him  more  than  the  probable 
and  more  immediate  consequences  of  his 
projected  act;  for  though  the  lady  in  Paris 
with  whom  he  had  made  an  unhappy  mar- 
riage had  practically  separated  from  him,  she 
was  none  the  less  still  his  wife.  Yet  per- 
haps no  such  regret  perturbed  him.  He  said 
over   and   over  again,   arguing    with    himself, 


-^     The  Coward.  147 

that  fhe  girl  loved  him ;  that  she  was  not  an 
Arab  but  a  European,  and  was  necessarily 
wretched  in  her  present  circumstances ;  that 
now  more  than  ever  she  would  be  miserable  if 
he  deserted  her ;  that  as  his  mistress  she  would 
be  far  happier  than  she  could  be  as  the  wife 
of  Si  Suleiman ;  that  even  in  the  event  of  that 
failing  she  would  still  be  better  rather  than 
worse  off.  All  that  he  said  was  more  than 
merely  probable ;  but  none  the  less  he  realised 
that  he  was  not  going  to  give  Dolores  any 
option. 

Again  and  again  he  looked  at  his  watch  to 
see  if  the  moment  of  his  departure  were  at 
hand.  At  last  the  time  came.  He  looked 
carefully  at  his  revolver  once  more,  descended, 
gave  some  directions  to  his  orderly,  and  then 
sprang  into  the  saddle. 

The  sentries  who  saw  and  recognised  Vent- 
du-Paradis  were  astonished.  The  orders 
against  any  man,  even  an  officer,  leaving  the 
fort  after  midnight  and  before  sunrise,  were 
imperative.  But,  granting  the  necessity  for 
what  almost  seemed  a  forlorn-hope  rider, 
why  should  the  emissary  be  the  Colonel  him- 
self? 


148  The  Coward. 

Unheeding  their  probable  questionings  among 
themselves,  Colonel  Le  Marchant  rode  steadily 
forward.  He  knew  that  the  journey  would 
occupy  nearly  an  hour,  for  though  Sidi  Khalifa 
was  at  no  great  distance,  the  old  Roman  ruins 
where  he  was  to  meet  Nakhala  were  to  the 
north-west  of  the  oasis,  and  had  to  be  reached 
by  a  circuitous  detour.  He  had  to  ride  care- 
fully, for  not  only  did  the  route  lie  across  a 
rough,  uneven,  and  occasionally  dangerously 
ravined  country,  but  there  was  momentary 
peril  of  a  surprise  on  the  part  of  stray  followers 
or  would-be  adherents  of  Bou-Amama. 

When,  at  last,  he  drew  rein  close  to  a  con- 
fused heap  of  fallen  columns  and  blocks,  he 
felt  as  though  he  had  already  almost  succeeded 
in  his  enterprise.  Dismounting,  he  listened 
awhile  intently.  Then,  satisfied  that  he  was 
alone,  he  secured  the  mare,  and  leaned  against 
one  of  the  three  or  four  ruined  columns  still 
standing.  He  knew  he  was  before  the  ap- 
pointed time,  but  he  could  not  refrain  from  the 
hope  that  Nakhala  would  be  consumed  by  a 
feverish  impatience  equal  to  his  own.  Still, 
the  time  passed  as  if  it  were  water  oozed  drop 
by  drop  from  an  almost  closed  crevice. 


The  Coward.  149 

Colonel  Le  Marchant  was  a  brave  man. 
Nevertheless  he  was  conscious  of  a  thrill  of 
paralysing  fear  when,  out  of  the  silence  and 
the  darkness,  and  apparently  from  the  ground 
close  by,  three  veiled  figures  approached.  He 
had  heard  no  one,  not  even  the  faintest  rustle. 
For  a  moment  he  knew  the  instinctive  dread 
of  the  supernatural ;  then  he  feared  that  he 
was  caught  in  an  ambush. 

"  Eugene  !  "  said  a  woman's  voice  —  a  low 
thrilling  whisper  that  sent  the  blood  surging 
from  his  heart  again,  and  made  him  take  a 
quick  step  forward. 

"  Dolores  .  .  .  Nakhala  ...  I  am  here  !  .  .  . 
Who  are  those  with  you  ?  " 

The  girl  moved  rapidly  towards  him,  and 
the  next  moment  was  in  his  arms. 

"Eugene  .  .  .  Eugene  ...  I  love  you.  Oh 
that  we  could  escape  from  those  who  are 
jealous  of  our  happiness  !  " 

"  So  we  can,  my  beautiful  Dolores,  and  at 
once  —  now  !     Who  are  those  with  you  ?  " 

"  But  you  know  how  bitter  my  father  is 
against  the  French  —  against  all  Routni  in 
truth.     And  —  " 

"  But  you  are  a  Spaniard." 


150  The  Coward. 

"  Nay,  I  am  of  the  Beni-Es-Saara  —  the 
People  of  the  Desert." 

"  But  now  you  are  free,  Dolores  !  Come,  do 
not  let  us  linger.  Any  moment  you  may  be 
followed,  any  moment  we  may  be  intercepted. 
Tell  me,  who  are  those  who  —  " 

"  And  my  father,  Eugene,  Mahomet  El- 
Djebeli,  wishes  me  to  wed  Si  Suleiman  ben 
Khaddour.  What  can  I  do  ?  I  cannot  be  a 
curse  to  my  own  people.  There  is  but  one 
way  to  happiness,  but  that  is  a  way  you  will 
not  take." 

"  Speak,  Nakhala,  what  is  this  way  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,  Eugene,  Bou-Amama  and  his 
followers  and  prisoners  will  pass  southward. 
Si  Suleiman  will  join  him  with  a  thousand  men 
as  soon  as  Bou-Amama  reaches  the  western 
and  southern  shores  of  the  Chott-El-Chergui." 

"  Do  not  disturb  yourself  about  Suleiman, 
Nakhala.     I  have  him  in  my  power." 

In  the  gloom  Le  Marchant  did  not  see  the 
girl's  sudden  start,  and  he  was  too  preoccupied 
to  notice  a  curious  movement  in  the  dark 
shadow  that  lay  enmassed  behind  the  very 
column  against  which  he  had  been  leaning. 

"  You  —  have  —  Si  Suleiman  —  in  your 
power  ?  " 


The  Coward.  151 


.-<• 


"Yes.  He  is  to  come  to  me  to-morrow.  He 
will  jiever  leave  El  Khadthera  —  or,  at  any 
rate,  not  till  this  war  is  over  and  you  and  I 
have  gone  hence.  But  now,  quick,  tell  me 
what  it  is  you  would  have  me  do  ? " 

"  Eugene  Le  Marchant,  if  you  will  keep  your 
troops  in  garrison  to-morrow,  I  will  come  to 
you  in  the  evening.  If  you  will  not  do  this, 
then  you  never  see  me  again." 

For  a  moment  Colonel  Le  Marchant  did  not 
fully  grasp  what  Nakhala  meant.  Then  the 
whole  thing  flashed  upon  him  as  if  in  a  sudden 
flare  of  light. 

"  Dolores,  you  do  not  know  what  you  ask. 
If  Bou-Amama  is  making  for  Gdryville  he  must 
pass  close  Xo  us.  What  will  my  troops  think 
if  they  see  me  allowing  an  insurgent  Arab  to 
give  us  the  slip,  a  victorious  rebel,  rich  with 
booty,  encumbered  with  Christian  prisoners? 
The  thing  is  impossible  !  " 

"  Then  it  is  as  I  feared.  We  must  part  at 
once." 

"  But  this  is  monstrous.  You  cannot  ask 
me  to  do  this  thing,  Nakhala." 

"  It  is  not  I  who  ask,  Eugene.  I  have  no 
choice.  We  are  snared,  you  and  I,  as  though 
we  were  helpless  quails." 


152  The  Coward. 

"  Snared  —  how  snared !  " 

"  My  father  discovered  my  flight.  On 
menace  of  immediate  death  I  confessed  that 
I  was  hastening  to  meet  you.  He  gave  me 
the  choice,  —  death,  or  to  win  you  over.  And 
as  the  Arabs  have  done  you  no  harm,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  you  would  not  condemn  us  both  to 
death  merely  for  the  sake  of  molesting  Bou- 
Amama." 

"  My  God,  Nakhala,  I  do  not  care  a  g^ain 
of  sand  for  Bou-Amama :  but  duty  .  .  .  duty  .  .  . 
and,  above  all,  the  prisoners  .  .  .  the  unfortu- 
nate women !  But  what  do  you  mean  about 
Mahomet's  condemning  us  both  to  death?" 

"  We  are  surrounded.  Ah,  do  not  attempt 
to  use  your  revolver,  —  it  is  too  late ;  a  cry  from 
either  of  these  men,  and  we  shall  be  captives 
in  a  moment." 

"  This  is  an  ambush  ! " 

"  Even  so ;  but  what  could  I  do,  Eugene  ?  " 

"  We  must  make  an  effort  to  escape.  As 
soon  as  I  fire,  leap  on  my  mare.  I  will  fire 
again,  and  then  leap  up  beside  you.  We  may 
even  yet  get  away." 

"  No,  it  is  too  late.  We  are  surrounded,  I 
tell  you." 


The  Coward.  153 

"  WeU  ? " 

"  This :  we  are  to  be  buried  alive  beneath 
two  of  these  great  columns." 

The  next  moment  Colonel  Le  Marchant 
raised  his  arm.  Almost  simultaneously  a  flare 
of  flame  and  a  crashing  report  came  from 
behind  the  nearest  column.  The  revolver  he 
had  held  was  blown  from  his  hand,  while  his 
arm  fell  to  his  side  temporarily  paralysed. 

A  profound  silence  ensued.  There  were 
still  only  Nakhala  and  the  two  impassive  veiled 
Arabs.     The  Colonel  was  convinced. 

"  Life  .  .  .  your  life  .  .  .  our  life,  Nakhala 
...  is  at  stake.  I  cannot  lose  you,  Dolores. 
It  may  mean  ruin  to  me ;  but  I  agree." 

"Oh,  Eugene,  Eugene,  you  have  saved  us!" 

"  Can  you  not  come  with  me  now  ?  I  will 
keep  my  promise." 

"No.  It  is  impossible.  To-morrow  night 
without  fail,  but  not  to-night." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  am  to  go  now  .  .  .  and 
in  safety  ? " 

"  Yes.  All  will  now  be  well.  But  .  .  . 
Eugene  .  .  .  remember!  If  you  break  your 
troth  you  will  not  only  never  see  me  again,  but 
will  be  the  cause  of  my  ruin,  my  death." 


154  The  Coward. 

"  I  have  given  my  word,  Dolores.  And  see, 
I  accept  yours.  You  say  you  will  come  to  me 
to-morrow  night.     Voild :   I  believe  it." 

"  She  will  come  !  " 

Le  Marchant  swung  round  as  he  heard  the 
harsh  gutteral  voice,  a  voice  that  seemed 
vaguely  familiar  to  him.  But  there  was  no  one 
visible.  He  strode  forward.  A  momentary 
glimpse  he  caught  of  a  tall  figure,  then  it  was 
lost  in  the  darkness.  When  he  looked  round 
again,  Nakhala  had  disappeared. 

He  seemed  to  be  absolutely  alone.  Was  it 
all  a  dream,  he  wondered.  No :  there  was  the 
evidence  of  his  shattered  revolver,  his  still 
aching  arm.  He  had  a  presentiment  of  further 
ill :  but  of  what  avail  were  presentiments  }  He 
had  made  his  choice,  and  must  abide  by  it. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  ride  back 
and  await  the  course  of  events. 

Dawn  was  breaking  as  he  saluted  the  sen- 
tinel at  the  gate  of  El  Khadthera.  He  had 
seen  no  one  on  the  road,  had  in  no  way  been 
molested  ;  yet  more  than  once  his  strained  ears 
told  him  that  he  was  not  alone  on  the  sandy 
wilderness  which  lay  between  the  fort  and  Sidi 
Khalifa. 


The  Coward.  155 

The  sentry  who  passed  him  did  not  know 
which^was  the  whiter:  the  white  dawn  that 
stole  above  the  barren  hills  and  undulating 
desert,  the  white  body  of  Vent-dii-Paradis, 
or  the  white  face  of  Colonel  Le  Marchant. 

The  morning  passed  slowly,  the  noontide 
more  slowly  still.  The  officers  of  the  garrison 
were  seated  at  dejeuner  when  an  orderly  en- 
tered with  the  news  that  a  large  body  of  Arab 
troops  was  visible  to  the  north-west,  apparently 
coming  from  Sidi  Khalifa  and  bound  south- 
ward by  the  G^rj-ville  route. 

"  It  must  be  Bou-Amama ! "  cried  Major 
Cazin ;  "  the  news  must  be  true  about  his  being 
on  the  march  south  !  " 

"  Now  we  shall  have  some  fighting ! "  mut- 
tered the  junior  officers  to  each  other;  "and 
high  time  too.  In  a  few  days  more  even 
El  Khadthera  would  be  under  the  spell  of 
that   rebel." 

Even  while  the  excitement  was  still  novel, 
further  tidings  arrived.  It  was  indeed  Bou- 
Amama.  He  was  passing,  however,  as  a  vic- 
torious captain  making  a  wise  movement :  not 
as  a  defeated  warrior  in  flight.  His  banners 
were  flying,  and  in   the  midst  of  his  irregular 


156  The  Coward. 

following  was  the  Green  Standard.  The  last 
messenger  vowed  that  Bou-Amama  Bel-Arbi 
openly  jeered  at  the  French,  telling  his  still 
only  half  convinced  army  that  the  French  were 
afraid,  and  that  even  the  powerful  garrison  of 
£1  Khadthera  would  not  venture  to  molest  him. 

By  this  time  not  only  the  officers  but  the 
troops  were  in  a  state  of  eager  excitement. 
This  became  frenzy  when  yet  another  mes- 
senger came  in  with  confirmation  of  the  news 
that  there  were  about  two  hundred  European 
prisoners  in  Bou-Amama's  train,  and  among 
them  no  fewer  than  sevenscore  women  and 
girls. 

From  where  Colonel  Le  Marchant  and  his 
officers  stood,  on  a  low  mamelon  near  the 
western  gate  of  the  fort,  the  rebel  Arab  army 
could  be  seen  with  ease.  To  the  amazement 
of  all,  it  was  rapidly  approaching.  A  furtive 
movement  became  noticeable  among  the  na- 
tives crowded  along  the  old  grassy  rampart  to 
the  south  of  the  gate. 

"  See  there,  mon  colonel^''  said  Captain 
Roussel,  significantly :  "  what  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"Natural  curiosity,  I  presume,"  was  the 
response,  in  a  cold  hard  voice. 


The  Coward.  157 

"  We  had  better  keep  an  eye  on  them  all  the 
same.  -'It  may  be  a  concerted  movement.  Ma 
foi,  it  looks  as  though  Bou-Amama  were 
coming  within  rifle-range  !  He  can't  be  mad 
enough  to  be  bent  on  a  show-off,  and  surely 
he's  not  going  to  try  and  take  the  fort  at  a 
rush." 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  keep  your  opinions  to 
yourself  till  they  are  asked  for,  Captain 
Roussel,"  said  Colonel  Le  IMarchant,  with 
sudden  anger.  His  junior  regarded  him  for  a 
moment  with  a  resentful  flush,  saluted,  and 
stiffly  drew  back. 

Soon  there  was  no  longer  doubt  that  Bou- 
Amama  was  coming  close  to  El  Khadthera. 
Was  it  to  attempt  an  assault,  or  to  lure  the 
garrison  to  issue  to  open  combat,  or  in  sheer 
bravado  ? 

All  eyes  were  now  turned  upon  the  Colonel, 
who  stood  fixedly  regarding  the  advancing 
force,  whose  derisive  cheers  and  shouts  of 
mockery  and  defiance  were  now  clearly  heard. 

At  last  Major  Cazin  could  restrain  himself 
no  longer. 

"  Shall  we  open  fire,  Colonel  Le  Marchant  ?  " 

>'No." 


158  The  Coward. 

"  But  .  .  .  pardon  me,  mon  colonel  .  .  .  Bou- 
Amama  may  take  the  fort  by  a  rush ;  and  the 
Arabs  here  —  they  are  already  excited  enough  ! 
If  they  rose  while  we  were  beating  back  a 
sudden  onrush  it  might  go  badly  with  us." 

"  Bou-Amama  will  not  attack  us,  Major 
Cazin.     This  is  mere  bravado  on  his  part." 

"  But,  good  heavens,  sir,  we  can't  allow  this 
successful  rebel  to  tarnish  us  with  cowardice  — 
to  slip  past  us  !  Why,  with  that  rag-tag  follow- 
ing of  his  we  could  send  him  to  the  right-about 
in  ten  minutes ;  and  if  he  is  fool  enough  to 
fight  we  could  pulverize  his  force,  simply  pul- 
verise it !  " 

"  /  am  the  sole  judge  of  what  is  best  to  be 
done,  Major  Cazin." 

"But,  Colonel  Le  Marchant  .  .  .  why,  my 
God !  .  .  .  mon  colonel  —  the  prisoners  !  the 
hundred  and  fifty  women  and  girls !  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well  .  .  .  Colonel,  I  —  I  —  don't  under- 
stand," stammered  Major  Cazin,  while  those 
about  him  looked  on  with  mingled  astonish- 
ment, anger,  and  rising  shame. 

The  Colonel  turned,  and  again  steadfastly 
regarded  the  enemy,  whose  vanguard  was  now 


The  Coward.  159 

_>« 
within  five  or  six  hundred  yards  distance. 
Suddeoly  a  mounted  Arab  dashed  forward 
and  rode  at  full  speed  towards  the  fort,  his 
burnous  streaming  in  the  wind  and  the  sunhght 
flashing  on  the  barrel  of  his  long  rifle  as  it  lay 
in  the  hollow  of  his  left  arm. 

When  within  fifty  yards  from  the  rampart 
he  swerved,  and,  managing  his  horse  with 
consummate  skill,  went  slowly  caracoling  along 
the  whole  western  front  of  the  fort. 

As  he  rode  he  shouted  alternately  in  Ara- 
bic and  French :  "  Ho  there,  dogs  and  sons 
of  dogs !  Let  every  infidel  tremble !  Bou- 
Amama  laughs  at  you  !  He  spits  in  your 
faces!  But  he  spares  you  yet  a  little  while. 
Eat,  drink,  aod  be  merry  while  you  can,  for  in 
a  few  days  he  will  come  again  and  wipe  both 
you  and  El  Khadthera  from  the  face  of  the 
earth.  See  !  he  passes,  scorning  and  deriding 
you !  We  have  slain  your  comrades  like 
jackals,  and  the  vultures  are  busy  with  your 
young  Sheik  Weimbrenner !  " 

Here  a  deep  hoarse  growl  arose  from  the 
French  soldiers  in  the  fort,  terrible,  menacing, 
like  the  savage  snarl  of  an  infuriated  tiger 
before  it  leaps  against  the  bars  of  its  cage, 


i6o  The  Coward. 

and,  breaking  them,  springs  upon  the  fools 
wlio  taunt  him. 

"  Bou-Amama  Bel-Arbi  will  be  compassion- 
ate, dogs  though  ye  be  ! "  went  on  the  envoy, 
in  a  loud  mocking  voice,  rising  to  a  scream 
ever  and  again  :  "  ay,  he  will  have  mercy  upon 
you,  if  you  will  lay  down  your  arms,  and  bow 
down  before  the  great  name  of  the  Prophet 
of  Allah  !  Otherwise  he  will  grind  you  like 
dust,  he  will  stamp  you  under  his  heel,  as  the 
horse  stamps  the  dry  dung  into  the  sand,  for 
ye  too  are  carrion  —  Djifa  —  djifa  —  djifa  /  " 

The  hoarse  growl  rose  now  to  fierce  execra- 
tions, savage  gripping  of  rifles,  a  panting, 
shuddering  breath  of  murderous  fury. 

"See!  The  great  Sheik  scorns  you!  He 
will  not  go  one  yard  out  of  his  way.  We  are 
treading  on  the  skirts  of  El  Khadthera  and 
will  rest  at  Ain  Sifi-sifa :  will  you  meet  us 
there  ?  Pah  :  you  will  not  stir  from  your  fort ! 
You  do  not  even  dare  to  fire  a  shot ;  though, 
sheltered  as  you  are,  you  could  slay  scores  of 
us  with  your  rifles  !  No :  you  are  not  men,  as 
we  Arabs  are.  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  That  is  what 
your  wives  and  daughters  and  young  women 
will  say  !     Ha  !   Ha  !   Ha  !   sevenscore  goodly 


The  Coward.  l6i 

women  have  we  carried  away  to  be  our  slaves 
and  concubines ! " 

Through  the  whole  force  went  a  shock  as 
though  an  electric  flash  had  stricken  it.  The 
sudden  silence,  save  for  a  dull  sound  as  of 
sobbing  breath,  was  full  of  unspeakable  rage, 
of  unutterable  menace.  The  officers  on  the 
mamelon  looked  at  their  colonel.  They  could 
see  his  face  in  profile  only ;  but  saw  that  it  was 
ashy  white,  and  that  the  muscles  twitched 
convulsively. 

An  expression  of  consternation  came  into 
the  faces  already  hard-set  in  anger  and  indig- 
nation. Each  man  looked  at  his  companions, 
then  at  the  Colonel,  then  at  Major  Cazin,  then 
at  the  Colonel  again.  Meanwhile,  tossing  his 
rifle  and  catching  it  on  high,  flaunting  his 
loose  burnous,  and  making  his  horse  swerve 
and  rear,  the  Arab  champion  leisurely  retraced 
his  way.  But  as  he  went  he  laughed  again 
and  again,  now  taunting  the  French  with 
cowardice,  now  mocking  the  fate  of  the  un- 
happy women  in  the  grip  of  Bou-Amama. 

There  was  the  dead  silence  of  intense 
expectation  as  Major  Cazin  strode  to  the  side 
of  his  superior  officer. 

II 


l62  The  Coward. 

"  Colonel  Le  Marchant,  we  are  ready.  Will 
you  give  the  word  of  command  ?  " 

The  Colonel  slowly  looked  round.  His 
features  were  drawn  ;  his  face  was  of  a  dull 
greyish  hue. 

"  For  what  ?  " 

The  voice  was  dry,  harsh,  as  though  the 
man  were  dying  of  thirst. 

"  For  what  ...  for  what  .  .  .  Colonel ! " 
exclaimed  Major  Cazin,  whose  eyes  gleamed 
like  those  of  a  beast  of  prey.  "  You  are  not 
going  to  let  the  French  flag  be  so  grossly 
insulted !  you  are  not  going  to  make  every  man 
of  the  garrison  drink  the  bitterest  cup  of  shame 
a  Frenchman  has  ever  been  asked  to  drink ! 
Good  God,  sir,  you  are  not  going  to  stand  by 
while  that  devil  Bou-Amama  marches  by  un- 
molested and  takes  with  him  two  hundred  of 
our  kith  and  kin,  a  hundred  and  forty  wives 
and  maidens ! " 

"  I  have  my  orders,"  was  the  reply  in  a  low 
voice,  yet  not  so  low  but  that  every  officer 
heard  it,  and,  hearing,  flushed  with  bitter 
shame  and  wrath. 

"We  know  your  orders,  Colonel  Le  Mar- 
chant.     But  no  orders  could  stand  in  the  way 


The  Coward.  163 

->• 
of  our  present  duty.  We  will  be  for  ever  dis- 
graced in  the  eyes  of  the  Arabs,  of  our  com- 
rades in  North  Africa,  of  our  nation,  of  our 
enemies,  of  the  whole  world,  if  we  do  not  at 
once  sally  forth.  There  is  not  a  man  of  us 
who  would  not  gladly  die  to  avert  this  stain 
on  the  honour  of  France  !  " 

"  Major  Cazin,  you  forget  yourself.  I,  and  I 
alone,  have  the  right  to  decide  what  is  our 
duty.  I  will  not  argue  the  matter  with  you  ; 
but  be  so  good  as  to  understand  that,  while  we 
shall  defend  ourselves  from  actual  attack,  I 
will  not  meanwhile  engage  in  battle  with  Bou- 
Amama." 

"  But,  sir,  mo7i  colonel,  the  women  —  the 
prisoners !  "  . 

"  I  have  spoken." 

A  look  of  fierce  contempt  came  into  every 
face.  One  sentiment  pervaded  the  whole  force, 
officers   and  men  :  their  colonel  was  afraid  ! 

Major  Cazin  did  not  bow.  At  first  he  made 
no  sign,  no  movement,  though  a  strange 
purplish  tinge  spread  from  his  lips  to  his 
cheeks.  When  he  did  speak  everj'  one  heard, 
and  with  indrawn  breath  awaited  the  answer. 

"  Colonel  Le  Marchant,  as  an  officer  of  the 


164  The  Coward. 

Army  of  the  Republic,  I  protest.  As  a  soldier 
of  France,  I  curse  this  hour  of  shame.  Even 
now,  will  you  save  us  this  disgrace  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  A  tremulous  move- 
ment was  visible  in  the  Colonel's  ashy  face. 

"Eugene  Le  Marchant,  you  are  a  coward!  " 

The  suspense  was  terrible.  After  this  insult, 
this  gross  dereliction  from  duty,  even  the  most 
long  suffering  man  must  turn. 

Colonel  Le  Marchant  veered  slowly.  With 
a  mechanical  gesture  he  pointed  westward  : 

"  See  :  the  enemy  is  now  in  full  retreat." 

But,  save  for  a  momentary  glance,  no  one 
looked  at  the  enemy. 

"  Major  Cazin! " 

"Sir!" 

"  Give  me  your  sword.  I  place  you  under 
arrest.  You  will  answer  for  this  revolt,  for 
this  insult,  at  a  court  where  your  bravado  will 
be  of  no  avail." 

"  Colonel  Le  Marchant,  it  is  you  who  fear 
me,  not  I  who  fear  what  you  can  do.  See, 
here  is  my  sword,  but,  lest  it  should  ever  be 
said  that  Lucien  Cazin  surrendered  his  sword 
to  a  coward  and  traitor,  I  break  it  across  my 
knee." 


The  Coward.  165 

As  he  spoke,  Major  Cazin  suited  his  action 
to  h\g  words.  Then,  flinging  the  splintered 
weapon  on  the  ground,  he  turned  abruptly  on 
his  heel  and  walked  away. 

With  a  slow  step  Colonel  Le  Marchant 
followed.  As  he  passed  the  group  of  officers, 
not  one  saluted. 

The  afternoon  went  past  in  a  gloom  full  of 
sullen  wrath  and  menace.  The  soldiers  talked 
of  nothing  but  the  Colonel's  cowardice,  Major 
Cazin's  insult,  Bou-Amama's  insolent  triumph, 
the  fate  of  the  prisoners,  the  events  of  the 
morrow,  the  outcome  of  the  inevitable  court- 
martial. 

In  his  room,  sitting  with  his  bowed  head  in 
his  hands,  Eugene  Le  Marchant  thought  only 
of  Nakhala. 

"It  is  for  you,  Dolores !  It  is  for  you ! " 
he  kept  muttering  over  and  over. 

A  sudden  blare  of  a  bugle  broke  the  stillness. 
It  was  sundown.  The  Colonel  rose,  went  out 
into  the  wide  sandy  road,  and  walked  swiftly 
towards  the  south  gate. 

A  little  group  was  clustered  round  the  sentry 
on  duty.  It  gave  way  as  the  Colonel  ap- 
proached. The  first  person  he  recognised  was 
Abdallah  :  but  blind,  newly  mutilated. 


1 66  The  Coward. 

On  the  ground  before  the  renegade  Arab 
was  a  figure  clad  in  a  long  white  robe.  Colonel 
Le  Marchant  noticed  how  ghastly  white  it 
looked  with  the  long  black  hair  streaming 
across  it  like  a  flood  of  ink. 

"Where  is  the  Sheik  of  El  Khadthera," 
Abdallah  was  crying  in  Arabic  over  and  over 
in  a  strained  hysterical  voice. 

"  Here." 

"  Ah,  it  is  you,"  said  the  mutilated  wretch, 
gasping  in  his  excitement.  "  I  come  from  Si 
Suleiman  ben  Khaddour.  It  was  he  who  took 
me  before  Bou-Amama ;  it  was  he  who  at  the 
Sheik's  order  did  this''' — and  as  he  spoke  he 
pointed  with  shaking  hand  at  his  ember-bleared 
eyes. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me ;  what  is  your 
message  ?  "  interrupted  Colonel  Le  Marchant 
stonily,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  white  fig- 
ure lying  so  inertly  upon  the  ground,  the 
white  figure  with  the  long  black  hair  streaming 
across  it. 

"Before  I  was  sent  hence  I  was  summoned 
before  Bou-Amama,  Si  Suleiman,  and  Maho- 
met El-Djebeli.  They  bade  me  tell  you  that 
the  Children  of  the  Desert  always  keep  their 


The  Coward.  167 

pledges.  Nakhala,  the  adopted  daughter  of 
the' Blind  Sheik,  promised  to  be  with  you  this 
evening.  So,  she  has  kept  her  pledge.  But  I 
have  a  message  to  give  you  along  with  this 
dead  woman." 

"  What  ?  " 

Colonel  Le  Marchant  spoke  as  if  uncon- 
cernedly. His  eyes  were  still  on  the  motion- 
less white  figure,  but  he  seemed  to  regard  with 
little  save  curiosity  what  he  knew  to  be  the 
corpse  of  his  beautiful  Dolores. 

"Si  Suleiman  said  to  me:  'Tell  the  French 
Sheik,  Le  Marchant,  that  I  send  my  wife 
Nakhala  to  keep  her  tr>'st  with  him.  Tell  him 
that  as  she  was  mine  in  life,  he  is  welcome  to 
her  in  death.'  " 

Colonel  Le  Marchant  stooped,  lifted  back 
the  burnous  from  the  corpse,  and  looked  for 
a  few  seconds  at  the  beautiful  face. 

"  Let  her  be  buried  according  to  the  rites  of 
the  Catholic  Church,"  he  said  simply,  and  then 
walked  back  to  his  quarters. 

On  his  way  he  met  and  stopped  the  senior 
captain. 

"Captain  Roussel,  I  have  just  received  in- 
structions to  pursue   Bou-Amama  and  prevent 


i68  The  Coward. 

his  taking  and  fortifying  Gdryville.  Si  Sulei- 
man ben  Khaddour  has  at  last  seceded  to  the 
rebels.  We  must  march  at  once.  You  will 
act  in  place  of  Major  Cazin." 

Captain  Roussel  drew  himself  up  stiffly, 
saluted,  and,  with  an  ill-disguised  look  of  con- 
tempt, turned  to  give  the  necessary  orders. 


A  VENETIAN   IDYL. 


A  Venetian   Idyl. 


They  are  pleasant  rooms,  those  which  my  friend 
and  I  shared  in  Venice  early  last  summer. 
Situate  as  they  are  at  the  eastern  extremity 
of  the  Traghetto  San  Gregorio,  the  windows  to 
the  front  look  out  on  all  the  life  and  beauty  of 
the  Grand  Canal,  though  the  house  itself  is 
entered  by  a  closed  courtyard  opening  off  the 
quiet  Rio.  It  is  true  that  not  infrequently  in 
the  evenings  loud  voices  and  laughter  and  shrill 
cries  are  heard  ;  for,  as  the  name  discloses, 
the  Traghetto  is  one  of  those  stations  where 
gondoliers  await  their  customers,  and  any  one 
who  has  lived  in  Venice  will  realise  at  once 
that  the  poetic  silence  universally  supposed 
to  characterise  the  widowed  queen  of  the 
Adriatic  is  a  hollow  delusion  if,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, there  be  a  gondola  station.  The 
men  have  a  habit,  also,  convenient  for  them- 


1/2  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

selves,  but  hardly  so  agreeable  to  inoffensive 
outsiders  ignorant  even  of  the  cause  of  dis- 
pute, of  quarrelling  from  opposite  banks  of  a 
canal,  whence  any  amount  of  ferocious  vituper- 
ation can  be  hurled  with  perfect  safety  —  the 
common  methods  by  which  nearly  all  disputes 
in  Venice  are  settled.  But,  after  all,  such  oc- 
casional noisiness  is  more  than  balanced  by 
the  otherwise  delightful  situation.  Almost  since 
the  day  of  our  arrival  in  the  ever-new  and  ever- 
beautiful  city,  we  had  employed  the  same  gon- 
dolier, by  name  Alessandro  Luigi  Tremazzi 
(as  we  afterwards  learned,  for  at  first  he  was 
known  to  us  only  by  his  familiar  appellation 
Luigi),  and  had  ultimately  engaged  his  exclu- 
sive services  for  a  month  at  the  moderate  rate 
of  four  and  a  half  lire  a  day. 

It  was  this  Luigi  who,  early  one  morning, 
towards  the  end  of  last  May,  brought  us  our 
coffee  and  asked  what  were  the  immediate  or- 
ders of  the  Signori.  We  had  felt,  even  before 
perceiving  the  fact,  that  a  scirocco  was  blow- 
ing ;  and  before  Luigi's  advent  we  had  de- 
bated for  some  time  whether  to  spend  the  first 
part  of  the  day  with  Tintoretto  and  Titian,  or 
to  sail  northward  to   Torcello,  so  as,  on   our 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  173 

return,  to  see  Venice  and  the  lagoons  in  the 
beairtiful  silver-and-amethyst  veil  of  a  scirocco 
sunset.  We  had  decided  on  the  latter  course  ; 
so,  having  given  the  needful  orders,  we  des- 
patched our  rolls  and  coffee  and  fruit.  We  be- 
fore long  found  ourselves  installed  in  the  roomy 
gondola  which  we  had  told  Luigi  to  direct  first 
to  the  Lido,  so  that  we  might  have  a  swim 
before  starting  in  earnest  on  our  journey.  As 
we  passed  San  Giorgio  on  the  right,  and  found 
the  Lion  of  St.  Mark's  and  the  Doge's  Palace 
on  our  left  giving  place  to  the  busy  Riva  degli 
Schiavoni,  we  noticed  that  the  little  wind  there 
was  seemed  to  be  decreasing,  so  much  so  as  to 
promise  to  fail  altogether  ere  long.  We  deter- 
mined, therefore,  to  wait  till  after  our  bathe 
before  deciding  finally  as  to  Torcello ;  for  we 
could  not  in  fairness  ask  Luigi  to  take  us  such 
a  distance  during  the  prostrating  and  thundery 
heat  of  a  windless  scirocco  day. 

As  we  neared  Sant'  Elisabetta  (or  "  the  Lido," 
as  this  part  o^  the  Lido  of  Malamacco  is  now, 
even  by  the  Venetians  themselves,  invariably 
called)  the  flagging  breeze  regained  a  little 
of  its  energy;  and  though  neither  the  sky 
above  nor  the  lagoon  beneath  had  anything  of 


1/4  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

that  wonderful  azure  transparency  so  character- 
istic of  them  at  most  other  times,  yet  they  had 
a  delicate  pale  blue  that  was  almost  as  lovely. 
Right  alongside  the  gondola,  indeed,  the  water 
had  a  dull  greenish  hue,  chiefly  imparted  to  it  by 
the  masses  of  green  trailing  sea-hair  which  the 
morning  tide  waved  up  from  the  shallow  depths. 

Leaving  Luigi  and  our  boat  in  the  little 
harbour,  we  strolled  across  the  island,  and 
in  ten  minutes  felt  the  sea-wind  on  our  faces, 
and  saw  before  us  the  Adriatic  sparkling  away 
into  seemingly  illimitable  distance,  leagues  be- 
yond leagues  of  moving  blue,  relieved  only  by 
a  white  crest  here  and  there,  a  snowy  gull 
sweeping  suddenly  in  its  flight,  and  some  half- 
dozen  widely  dispersed  fishing-boats  endeav- 
ouring to  make  the  most  of  the  wind  that,  at 
intervals,  puffed  out  their  orange,  brick-red,  or 
saffron-hued  sails. 

Endlessly  beautiful  as  was  this  view,  we 
soon  deserted  it  for  the  Stabilimento,  whence, 
after  a  long  and  delightful  swim  in  the  salt 
and  buoyant  waves,  we  joined  Luigi :  for  we 
had  noticed  a  deepening  of  the  blue  to  the 
south,  and  were  now  intent  upon  reaching  Tor- 
cello.     As  we  passed  the  green  promontory  of 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  175 

the  Public  Gardens  we  heard  the  gondolier 
make^some  remark  about  the  weather,  but  his 
meaning  escaped  us,  and  it  was  not  till  we 
were  close  upon  San  Michele  that  he  spoke 
again.  Beyond  this  island  graveyard  an  ex- 
quisite silveriness  permeated  the  already  hazy 
atmosphere  to  the  north  and  west,  till  at  last 
it  seemed  as  if  a  veil  of  thinnest  gossamer  had 
been  invisibly  spun  from  below  and  above,  an 
aerially  transparent  veil  that  caused  every  dis- 
tant object  or  outline  upon  which  we  looked  to 
seem  as  though  beheld  in  a  mirage.  In  what 
might  have  been  mere  dreamland  vision,  we 
saw,  thus,  the  Venetian  district  of  Canarreggio 
and  the  dim  islands  of  the  lagoons  to  the  south 
of  Mestre ;  and  even  adjacent  Murano  lost  some 
of  its  unsightliness,  and  gleamed  as  a  great, 
dusky  nectarine  on  a  sunside  wall.  But  while 
we  were  silently  watching  this  visible  scirocco- 
breath,  we  heard  Luigi's  second  interruption,  a 
politely-worded  hint  that  it  would  not  be  an 
agreeable  day  for  the  signori  to  proceed  to 
Torcello.  On  asking  him  wherefore,  he  told 
us  that  it  would  be  exceptionally  close  and 
thundery  till  the  afternoon,  and  that  then  a 
storm  of  more  or  less  severity  would  probably 


1/6  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

break.  Knowing  from  experience  how  weather- 
wise  our  gondolier  was,  we  at  once  relinquished 
our  project :  and  straightway  agreed  to  return 
homeward,  to  disembark  at  San  Nicoletto,  and 
have  our  luncheon  and  afternoon  smoke  under 
the  shadowy  acacias  at  that  most  beautiful, 
though  least  known,  part  of  the  Lido.  An  hour 
later,  then,  we  were  sitting  in  the  cool  and  ex- 
quisitely fragrant  acacia  shade,  and  by  no 
means  disappointed  at  the  enforced  change  in 
our  plans.  While  lazily  smoking  after  our  light 
luncheon,  and  as  lazily  looking  out  upon  the 
metallic  grey-blue  of  the  lagoons  beyond  us, 
or  listening  to  the  humming  of  the  wild  bees 
among  the  innumerable  white  clusters  over- 
head, one  of  us  asked  Luigi  to  tell  us  a  story, 
true  or  legendary,  as  he  preferred.  Our  gon- 
dolier himself  looked  the  hero  of  some  Vene- 
tian romance.  Tall  and  strong,  but  lithe  rather 
than  largely  built,  with  wavy  masses  of  black 
hair  curling  over  his  sun-tanned  forehead  and 
down  upon  his  brown  neck ;  with  dark  grey 
eyes  that  were  at  once  indolent  and  fiery  in 
their  expression ;  and  with  a  pleasant  smile 
lingering  always  about  his  mouth ;  he  bore  his 
thirty  years  so  well,  and  with  such  unconscious 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  177 

grace,  that  neither  painter  nor  romancist  could 
havcfound  a  better  model  amongst  the  gon- 
doliers of  Venice  or  the  fisherfolk  of  Chioggia. 

Laughingly  he  replied  to  our  request,  that  he 
could  sing  the  songs  of  his  craft,  but  that  he 
was  not  a  good  stor}--teller,  and,  moreover,  that 
he  remembered  nothing  that  could  interest  the 
Signori.  But  when  my  friend  suggested  to  him 
that  he  should  tell  us  something  about  himself 
if  this  were  not  asking  too  much,  he  blushed 
slightly  as  though  with  gratified  pleasure,  add- 
ing immediately  that,  if  it  would  please  us  to 
hear,  he  would  tell  us  how  he  won  and  mar- 
ried the  pretty  wife  whom  he  had  taken  us  to 
visit  the  other  day. 

Throwing  -himself  in  an  easy  posture  in  the 
acacia  shade  beside  us,  Luigi  remained  silent 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  began  in  his  soft 
and  sibilant  Venetian  the  following  narration, 
which,  however,  does  not  pretend  to  follow 
with   exactness  his  own  phraseology. 

"  I  don't  think  the  heroes  of  stories,  even  in 
stories  related  by  the  chief  actors  themselves, 
are  possessed  of  only  one  name.  So,  though  to 
every  one   I   am  known  only  as    Luigi,  I    may 

12 


178  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

begin  by  saying  that  I  am  the  only  son  of 
my  dead  father  Giovan'  Andrea,  and  that  my 
own  name  in  full  is  Alessandro  Luigi  Tre- 
mazzi.  I  was  christened  Alessandro  after  my 
father's  father,  and  Luigi  after  my  maternal 
grandfather,  but  was  always  called  by  the 
former  name  until  my  sixth  or  seventh  year, 
when  my  father  began  invariably  to  address 
me  as  Luigi,  —  a  change  that  I  afterwards  dis- 
covered to  be  due  to  an  act  of  shameful  treach- 
ery on  the  part  of  his  bosom  friend,  Alessandro 
Dk  Ru,  after  whom  I  had  been  named  in 
common  with  my  father's  father.  I  mention 
this  only  because  Dk  Ru's  son,  Matteo,  with 
whom  my  father  forbade  me  ever  to  play  or 
even  to  speak,  turns  up  again  in  my  narrative, 
and  there 's  always  more  than  one  traitor  in  a 
traitor's  nest.  However,  things  went  on  with 
us,  sometimes  well  and  sometimes  ill,  till  ray 
twenty-fifth  year.  At  this  time  my  father 
owned  two  gondolas,  one  quite  new,  and  the 
other  considerably  dilapidated  by  many  years' 
use  ;  and  as  strangers  generally  prefer  a  young 
and  active  to  an  old  man  it  generally  happened 
that  I  took  up  my  station  at  the  Piazzetta  with 
the  new  gondola,   while  my  father  did  ferry 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  179 

or  '  barca '  duty  with  the  other  at  a  Traghetto 
neafl-  the  Rio  di  S.  Vito,  opposite  the  Giudecca. 
Between  us  we  managed  to  get  along  without 
getting  into  debt.  Owing,  however,  to  the  old 
man's  mania  for  investing  his  money  in  lotteries 
and  other  speculations  of  like  uncertainty,  it 
was  little  that,  even  in  the  busy  spring  and 
autumn  seasons,  we  were  able  to  put  aside,  and 
this  little  certainly  never  survived  a  winter. 
If  the  money  had  not  gone  in  this  fashion  we 
should  have  been  very  well-to-do  indeed :  for 
at  an  average  of  from  six  to  eight  lire  a  day 
between  us  throughout  the  year,  we  should 
have  been  better  off  than  nine  out  of  every 
ten  of  our  neighbours,  having  no  one  to  share  or 
depend  upon  our  profits.  About  this  time  my 
father  died,  the  doctor  saying  it  was  from  eat- 
ing too  much  ripe  melon,  and  the  parish  priest 
declaring  that  it  was  a  sign  of  divine  displea- 
sure at  old  Tremazzi's  not  having  been  to  mass 
for  a  year  come  Corpus  Christi.  My  father 
had  been  a  rather  hard  and  taciturn  man,  but 
I  missed  him  sorely  at  first ;  however,  the  poor 
must  work  however  much  they  grieve,  and, 
moreover,  my  life  had  just  become  filled  with 
a    new     and    absorbing   interest.      For    some 


i8o  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

weeks  before  my  father's  death  I  had  regularly 
gone  every  leisure  half-hour  to  a  small  caf^  on 
the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni :  not  because  I  spe- 
cially wanted  either  coffee  or  iced  orange-water, 
but  because  it  was  next  door  to  the  tiny  rope- 
shop  of  old  Salvatore  Agujani.  You  may  be 
sure  I  did  not  spend  my  soldi  at  the  cafd 
merely  to  look  at  the  interior  of  a  rope-seller's 
shop,  nor  even  for  the  pleasure  of  occasionally 
conversing  a  little  with  white-haired  Salvatore 
himself.  But  Signor  Agujani  had  a  grand- 
daughter who  lived  with  him,  and  who  fre- 
quently was  to  be  seen  in  the  little  shop  itself. 
"  It  is  not  for  me,  Signori,  to  say  too  much 
about  the  beauty  of  '  La  Biondina,'  as  many  of 
the  neighbours  called  her,  considering  that  she 
is  now  my  wife :  but  you  have  seen  her  your- 
selves, and  can  therefore  judge  if  she  does  not 
deserve  to  be  known  as  'Zena  la  Bionda.' 
You  saw  how  golden-fair  her  hair  is,  how  dark 
blue  are  her  eyes,  how  white  her  beautiful  neck 
and  delicate  hands,  how  joyous  is  her  laughter ; 
but  you  can't  guess  how  much  fairer  she  seems 
to  me  when  I  come  home  at  nights  for  my  fried 
fish  and  macaroni,  to  see  her  sitting  beside  mc 
and   laughing   at  our  baby's  frantic   efforts    to 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  l8l 

-V 
reach  me.     But  I  am  getting  on  too  fast,  and 
givijig  you  the  sequel  before  I  have  done  with 
the  beginning. 

"  When  my  father  was  buried  yonder  in 
San  Michele,  I  found  myself  possessor  of  the 
two  boats.  I  sold  the  old  one,  almost  useless 
as  a  gondola,  to  an  acquaintance  who  was 
content  to  get  through  life  with  such  profits 
as  the  ownership  of  a  '  barca '  could  bring  in. 
With  the  proceeds,  and  what  little  money  there 
was  lying  by,  I  paid  off  all  debts,  and  began 
the  world  on  my  own  account  with  my  nearly 
new  gondola,  which  I  rechristened  '  La  Bion- 
dina.' 

"  By  this  time,  I  ought  to  say,  there  was  an 
unworded,  understanding  between  Zena  and 
myself.  How  well  I  remember  the  day  when  I 
first  took  her  to  see  the  change  in  my  boat's 
name!  It  was  the  Festa  of  Corpus  Christi, 
and  I  had  determined  on  two  things  when  I 
rose  at  sunrise :  firstly,  that  I  should  keep  the 
day  as  a  holiday ;  secondly,  that,  if  possi- 
ble, I  should  get  a  definite  answer  from  Zena, 
whether  for  good  or  ill,  before  I  lay  down  to 
rest  again.  Punctually  at  seven  o'clock  I  was 
at    the    Riva    degli    Schiavoni,    wishing  good 


1 82  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

morning  to  old  Salvatore ;  and,  at  that  very  mo- 
ment, Zena  came  out,  looking  lovelier  than  any 
flower  you  can  see  here  on  the  Lido.  Then 
the  three  of  us  went  off  to  the  Piazza  to 
see  the  grand  procession,  and  to  get  blessed 
by  the  Cardinal  Archbishop  in  St.  Mark's. 
Throughout  the  rest  of  the  day  we  met  and 
talked  with  acquaintances,  and  idled  and  ate 
ices  like  the  rich  forestieri  themselves.  After 
sundown,  when  all  Venice  that  could  afford  it 
was  on  the  water,  every  one  eager  to  see  the 
hundreds  of  gondolas  flitting  to  and  fro  upon 
the  Grand  Canal,  or  clustering  by  the  score 
round  the  huge  illuminated  barge  filled  with 
musicians.  Then,  too,  there  were  the  beautiful 
fireworks  shooting  up  endlessly  all  along  the 
banks,  from  the  end  of  the  Schiavoni  to  the 
Rialto  and  the  station  at  the  extreme  north- 
west 

We,  too,  went  out  on  the  canal  in  my 
gondola,  —  for  though  I  could  have  let  it  that 
evening  for  so  large  a  sum  as  ten  lire,  I  swear 
that  fifty  lire  would  not  have  made  me  forego 
the  pleasure  of  taking  Zena  out  to  see  the  end 
of  the  great  Festa.  As  we  came  along  the  Piaz- 
zetta,  her  grandfather  turned  to  speak  to  some 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  183 

friend :  so  I  had  time  to  take  her  down  to  the 
boat-'itself,  and  managed  to  swing  the  prow 
aside,  so  as  to  show  Zena  the  name  freshly 
painted  on  the  narrow  bulwark.  When  she 
saw  '  La  Biondina '  written  there  she  blushed  as 
red  as  a  rose,  and  then  asked  me  coquettishly 
what  had  made  me  change  its  name  from 
'  La  Bella  Esperanza ; '  whereupon  I  replied 
that  to  own  '  La  Biondina '  was  my  '  Bella 
Esperanza ;  '  and  here  she  blushed  again  more 
deeply  than  before.  Knowing  I  might  not 
have  another  opportunity  that  night,  I  stooped 
forward  and  whispered,  '  Zena,  carissi>na,  I 
love  you  with  all  my  heart ;  do  you  think  you 
will  ever  love  me  enough  in  return  to  be  my 
wife  ? '  and  -to  my  delight  and  joy  she  breathed 
rather  than  said,  '  I  have  loved  you  always, 
Luigi.'  Ah!  the  happiness  of  that  night!  I 
shall  never  forget  it ;  and,  you  may  be  sure, 
Signori,  that  we  looked  more  at  one  another 
than  at  the  fireworks  or  the  innumerable  gon- 
dolas filled  with  gayly  dressed  forestieri,  and 
listened  more  eagerly  to  each  other's  lightest 
word  than  to  the  music  which  continuously  was 
swept  up  and  down  the  Grand  Canal  by  the 
soft     night  wind.      I    said  to  myself  that    it 


l84  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

seemed  all  too  good  to  be  true,  but  I  little 
guessed  that  my  light  thought  was  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  a  sad  reality. 

"  I  said  nothing  that  night  to  old  Agujani ; 
and  even  when  I  parted  with  Zena  nought 
passed  between  us  but  an  ardent  hand-pressure 
and  a  loving  glance  into  each  other's  eyes. 
After  my  return  home  I  could  not  sleep  for  a 
long  time,  because  of  my  great  happiness.  At 
last,  however,  I  fell  into  a  sound  doze ;  though 
not  a  dreamless  one,  for  twice  ere  morning  I 
dreamt  that  I  was  a  little  boy  once  more,  and 
that  my  father  was  telling  me  never  again  to 
play  or  speak  with  Matteo,  the  son  of  Alessan- 
dro  Dk  Ru,  adding  the  proverb  I  had  so  often 
heard  him  muttering  between  his  teeth, '  There 's 
always  more  than  one  traitor  in  a  traitor's  nest.' 

"  When  I  woke  it  was  with  such  lightness 
of  heart  as  I  suppose  the  larks  have  on  a 
cloudless  April  morning.  Before  mid-day, 
however,  all  my  joy  had  vanished,  or  at  any 
rate  had  been  sorely  damped;  for,  you  must 
know,  I  was  officially  informed  that  I  was  a 
navy  conscript.  In  other  words,  notice  was 
given  me  that  I  must  without  delay  join  one  of 
the  King's   ships  of  war  for  a  term  of  three 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  185 

years.     As  you  may  imagine,   this  was   a  sad 
blow^  to   my    ardent    hopes.     I    had   no    way 
of  escape ;  firstly,  because  I  had  no  mother  or 
children   dependent   on   me    and   was   also   in 
good  health;   and   secondly,   because   I   could 
not    afford   to  pay    for   a  substitute,  even    if 
the    authorities   should    permit    my   doing    so. 
There  was  nothing  for  it   but  to  store  up  my 
gondola  for  the   three  years,   or   else   to   sell 
it.  and  then  to  settle  matters  and  depart.     This 
doesn't,  perhaps,   seem   much   to   do,   and  of 
course  many  of  my  friends  and  acquaintances 
have    undergone    similar   experiences ;     yet    I 
can  tell   you   my  heart  was  sore  indeed  when 
I  broke  the  news  to  poor  Zena.     She  took  it 
bravely,  however,   and  assured   me  with   tears 
in  her  eyes  that  three  years  would  soon  pass ; 
that  she  would  write  often,  and  that  she  would 
never  swerve  from  her  pledged    fealty  to  me. 
Also  she  persuaded  me  to  say  nothing  about  our 
engagement  to   her  grandfather,   because  the 
latter  would  be   sure  to   object  to   her  being 
bound  down  through  three  years   of  absence 
on  my  part. 

«'  Well,  Signori,  I  need  not  dwell  upon  what 
were   sad   enough   days   to  Zena   and   myself, 


1 86  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

but  the  long  and  short  of  it  is  that  in  less  than 
a  week  after  the  ofificial  intimation  I  was  on 
board  the  *  R6  Umberto.'  You  may  be  sure  Li- 
vorno  seemed  a  poor  enough  place  to  me  after 
Venice,  and  that  the  life  of  a  man-of-war's 
man  was  anything  but  a  welcome  exchange 
from  the  honourable  freedom  of  a  gondolier,  — 
a  gondolier,  moreover,  who  owned  his  boat. 
But  I  must  n't  weary  you  with  details  as  to 
how  these  three  years  went  by,  save  that 
sometimes  we  were  stationed  at  Livorno, 
sometimes  at  Spezzia,  again  at  Tunis  or  at 
Alexandria,  but  never  once  at  Venice.  On 
one  occasion  my  heart  beat  high  when  I  heard 
it  rumoured  that  the  '  Rd  Umberto'  had  been 
ordered  to  Trieste,  for  then  I  knew  that  if  I 
could  get  a  couple  of  days'  leave  I  should  be 
able  to  get  across  to  Venice  and  have  a  glimpse 
of  my  sweetheart;  however,  nothing  came  of 
this  rumour,  and  when  we  left  Corfu  we  steered 
south-westward  and  not  towards   the  north. 

"  I  should  have  told  you  before  this  that,  when 
I  joined  my  ship,  I  found  two  or  three  acquaint- 
ances amongst  the  conscripts,  but  on  the  night 
of  my  arrival  only  one  known  face  met  my 
gaze,  —  the  face  of    Matteo   Dk    Ru.     I   had 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  187 

seen  little  or  nothing  of  my  former  playmate  for 
severa],  years  past,  as  old  Dk  Ru  had  left  his 
home  in  the  Giudecca  some  five  years  before 
my  father's  death  and  joined  the  fishing  fra- 
ternity at  Chioggia,  which,  as  you  know,  Sig- 
nori,  is  some  thirty  miles  to  the  south  of  this. 
Distance  as  well  as  local  prejudices  continue 
to  keep  the  inhabitants  of  the  northern  and 
southern  lagoons  apart :  and  even,  as  in  the 
Giudecca  itself,  intermarriage  with  a  man  or 
woman  of  the  town  proper  is  not  approved 
of.  But  though  Matteo  and  I  had  met  seldom 
of  recent  years,  we  knew  each  other  well,  and 
I  could  not  but  have  a  kindly  feeling  to  an 
acquaintance  encountered  under  such  circum- 
stances,—  one,  moreover,  whom  I  had  known 
since  we  were  litde  boys  together.  Yet,  curi- 
ously enough,  I  experienced  what  was  nearly 
a  feeling  of  repulsion  when  we  embraced 
one  another  with  friendly  salutations,  —  just  as 
>.f  I  heard  again  my  old  father  telling  me  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  kith  or  kin  of  Alessan- 
dro  Dk  Ru,  and  muttering  his  proverb  about 
traitors.  Although  I  guessed  by  this  time 
what  it  was  that  had  come  between  my  father 
and  his  friend,  I  no  longer  thought  it  fitting  I 


l88  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

should  renounce  the  latter's  son  for  a  crime  of 
which  he  was  wholly  guiltless;  and  so  it  was 
that,  although  we  never  became  friends  in  the 
true  sense  of  the  word,  we  learnt  to  like  each 
other  well  enough  to  be  decidedly  friendly 
acquaintances. 

"  All  this  time,  of  course,  I  heard  at  more  or 
less  regular  intervals  from  Zena,  —  letters  al- 
ways welcome,  because  they  told  me  she  was 
well  and  happy.  It  is  true  these  letters  were 
not  written  by  herself.  Yet  though  the  pen- 
manship was  that  of  old  Antonio  Baruccio,  the 
public  letter-writer  who  sits  at  the  right-hand 
corner  of  the  Campo  di  Santa  Maria  Formoso, 
to  me  they  were  the  same  as  though  she  had 
written  them,  partly  because  I  knew  the  words 
were  hers,  and  partly  because,  I  am  ashamed 
to  say,  I  could  n't  at  that  time  read  handwrit- 
ing myself.  I  may  say  now,  Signori,  that 
both  Zena  and  myself  not  only  read  but  write 
fairly  well ;  but  at  the  time  I  am  speak- 
ing of  I  had  always  to  call  in  assistance  to 
get  through  my  sweetheart's  notes,  and  to 
indite  my  own  in  return.  I  had  found  a  trust- 
worthy confidant  in  Gian'  Battista,  the  boat- 
swain's mate,  and  during  the  greater  part  of 


A  Venetian  Idyl  189 

my  time  this  good  friend  acted  the  part  of 
reader  *^and  secretary  for  me,  and  never  once 
betrayed  my  sweetheart's  name  to  my  com- 
rades. About  three  months  before  the  close 
of  my  time,  we  were  stationed  at  Spezzia :  and 
while  there  I,  in  common  with  Matteo  Dk  Ru 
and  half-a-dozen  others,  was  drafted  off  to 
the  gunboat  *  La  Fiamma,'  as  the  crew  of  the 
latter  required  reinforcement  owing  to  the 
extra  trouble  smugglers  from  the  French  and 
North  African  coasts  had  given  of  late.  There 
had  for  more  than  a  year  past  been  a  grow- 
ing coolness  between  Matteo  and  myself,  —  a 
coolness  that  had  arisen  without  any  definite 
cause,  but  strong  enough  to  prevent  my  mak- 
ing him  a  confidant  in  my  affairs  and  hopes. 
But  one  night,  when  we  were  together  in  the 
same  watch,  I  determined  to  tell  him  about 
Zena  and  myself,  having  so  resolved  on  account 
o.^  my  friend  Gian'  Battista  being  no  longer 
at  hand  to  help  me  with  my  correspondence. 
I  knew,  too,  that  I  ought  soon  to  hear  from 
Venice,  as  I  had  sent  a  letter  there  soon  after 
we  arrived  in  the  Gulf  of  Spezzia.  For  four 
months  past  I  had  had  no  news  of  my  sweet- 
heart.    I   knew  this   was  no  fault  of  hers,  as 


190  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

I  felt  certain  she  had  written  to  such  addresses 
as  I  had  given  her  before  the  sudden  departure 
of  the  'Umber to'  for  the  west.  During  this 
period  we  had  been  to  Monte  Video,  return- 
ing by  the  coasts  of  Morocco,  and  finally  by 
those  of  Algeria  and  Tunis:  and  it  was  not 
surprising  that  Zena's  letters  should  have  per- 
sistently wandered  astray  among  such  widely 
apart  places  as  Corfu,  Alexandria,  Messina, 
Gibraltar,  Monte  Video,  and  the  North  African 
stations.  None  the  less  I  was  eager  for  even 
a  scrap  of  news,  and  longed  till  another  day 
should  bring  me  the  reply  to  my  last  letter.  By 
this  time  I  could  read  a  little,  though  only 
slowly  and  with  difficulty  ;  yet  I  hoped  to  make 
out  Zena's  letter  by  myself,  or  at  any  rate  to 
do  so  after  it  had  once  been  read  over  to  me 
by  a  friend. 

"In  an  emergency  one  cannot  always  be 
particular,  and  thus  it  was  I  came  to  confide 
in  Matteo.  As  I  said,  we  were  one  evening 
together  in  the  same  watch;  we  had  been 
talking  about  our  term,  which  would  shortly 
expire,  and  about  what  we  would  do  when 
we  got  our  final  discharge. 

"  •  My  father   would  like  me  to  join  him  in 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  191 

his  fishery  business  at  Chioggia,'  said  Mat- 
teo;  '*but  I  have  no  intention  of  doing  so. 
I  have  my  gondola  safely  stored  up,  and  will 
try  to  get  my  old  place  at  the  Piazzetta  again. 
Then  perhaps  I  will  get  a  wife,  and  have 
a  comfortable  home,  after  all  this  jumbling 
about  in  the  western  seas.' 

" '  Oh,  then,'  I  replied,  '  you  are  thinking 
of  marr}-ing,  are  you  ?  Come,  come,  my  friend, 
a  man  doesn't  generally  think  that  in  earnest 
unless  he  has  some  one  in  view.  Why  did 
you  never  say  anything  of  this  to  me  before  ?  ' 

"  '  For  the  same  reason,  I  suppose,'  answered 
Matteo,  '  that  you  never  confided  in  me.  Do 
you  think  I  am  blind,  that  I  never  saw  you 
writing  letters  (or  rather  getting  Gian'  Bat- 
tista  to  do  them  for  you)  whenever  we  were 
anywhere  in  port?  I  knew  your  father  was 
dead,  and  I  did  n't  suppose  you  wrote  so  often 
to  Francesco,  or  Tito,  or  Paolo,  or  any  other  of 
our  fellow-gondoliers.' 

'"Tell  me  this,  then,'  I  said  laughingly; 
'  is  your  sweetheart  dark  or  fair  ?  Mine  is 
as  fair  as  a  May  day  is  to  a  December  night. 
I  '11  swear  she  is  the  most  beautiful  biondina 
in  all  Italy.' 


192  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

"  *  Is  she  so  very  fair,'  asked  Matteo,  with 
sudden  eagerness  —  '  is  she  so  very  fair  ?  I  '11 
lay  you  a  day's  wage,  cam'rado  mio,  that  she  is 
not  the  equal  of  the  girl  I  love  !  Come,  tell 
me  her  name,  and  it  may  be  that  some  friend 
here  knows  the  girls,  and  so  can  decide  as  to 
which  is  the  fairer.' 

" '  No,  no,'  I  said,  '  I  asked  you  first.  Tell 
me  the  name  of  your  sweetheart,  and  I  '11  tell 
you  mine.' 

" '  Not  so ;  but  if  you  like,  we  '11  toss  for  it. 
"  Heads  "  to  tell  first.' 

"  '  Agreed  ! ' 

"  Whereupon  Matteo  flung  six  soldi  into  the 
air,  four  of  which  came  down  'heads'  upward, 
so  that  it  was  I  who  had  to  disclose  my  secret 
first. 

"  *  Altro  !  she  is  called  La  Biondina,  because 
she  is  so  fair  and  beautiful,  by  those  who  know 
her  well;  Zenala  Bionda,  by  others  ;  and  Signo- 
rina  Zena  Agujani  by  strangers  and  customers 
who  call  at  her  grandfather's  shop  in  the  Riva 
degli  Schiavoni.     Ecco,  la  mia  biondina  ! ' 

"  Just  then  I  heard  the  officer  of  the  watch 
call  out  something  sharply  to  some  one  for- 
ward,  and    turned  my  head    to  listen ;    but, 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  193 

hearing  no  sound  of  any  kind  from  Matteo,  I 
looked^ round  again,  and  was  startled  to  see  his 
face  ghastly  pale  and  his  dead-black  eyes 
glittering  with  what  looked  to  me  like  un- 
controlled hate. 

"  '  What 's  the  matter,  Matteo,'  I  cried,  '  and 
why  do  you  look  at  me  thus  ?  ' 

"  He  did  not  reply  at  first,  but  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  me  with  the  same  strange  ex- 
pression ;  then  he  stammered  something  about 
not  feeling  well,  and  that  I  was  to  take  no 
notice  of  it.  He  said  it  was  a  return  of  the 
same  complaint  he  used  to  suffer  from  occa- 
sionally after  being  out  most  of  the  night 
with  the  fishing-boats,  a  kind  of  cramp  in  the 
stomach.  This  fully  accounted  to  me  for 
his  ghastly  look,  though  at  first  I  had  been 
startled  into  vague  alarm. 

"  '  Are  you  better  now  ?  '  I  asked  ;  but  be- 
fore he  answered  he  stepped  closer  into  the 
dark  shadow  that  stretched  between  us  and 
the  foremast,  just  as  though  he  were  anxious 
that  I  should  not  again  see  his  face.  If  this 
was  his  intention  he  succeeded ;  for  all  I 
discerned  was  the  dim  outline  of  his  figure.  It 
was  one  of  those  moonless  nights  when  even 

13 


194  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

the  light  of  the  stars  seems  only  sufificient  to 
let  us  know  how  dark  it  is. 

'"Yes,  yes;  I  am  all  right  now.  And  have 
you  been  engaged  to  Zena  Agujani  all  this 
time?  Has  she  promised  to  marry  you,  or 
is  there  simply  an  understanding  between 
you?  Does  old  Salvatore  know  how  matters 
stand  ? ' 

" '  One  question  at  a  time,  my  friend,'  I 
said ;  '  besides,  you  forget  you  have  not  yet 
fulfilled  your  part  of  the  agreement.  What 
is  the  name  of  your  bella  biondaj  is  she  of 
Venice  or  Chioggia  ? ' 

"  '  Oh,  I  was  only  joking,  Luigi.  I  was  in 
love  for  a  time  with  a  golden-haired  girl  from 
Trieste,  who  lived  with  her  uncle  at  Fusina; 
but  she  had  too  fiery  a  tongue  for  me,  and  the 
last  I  heard  of  her  was  that  she  had  married 
Piero  Carelli,  the  lemon  merchant  at  Mestre. 
I  don't  believe  in  blondes,  amico  mio ;  I  never 
yet  heard  of  one  who  was  true  to  both  lover 
and  husband.  Only  a  dark  girl  is  always  true 
to  her  lover.' 

"  '  And  is  that  so,  Matteo  ?  or  is  your  opinion 
not  based  on  the  simple  fact  of  your  sweet- 
heart's having  preferred  good-tempered  Piero 


A  Venetian   Idyl.  195 

Carelli  to  a  somewhat  surly  Chioggian  fisher- 


man 


-»' 


"  I  had  been  fooHshly  provoked  at  Matteo's 
remarks  about  blondes  in  general,  and  I  fully 
expected  my  answering  sneer  would  have  roused 
his  quick  and  passionate  temper.  To  my  sur- 
prise he  replied  with  unexpected  eagerness,  — 

" '  Come,  Luigi  caro,  don't  let  us  quarrel 
about  a  trifle.  Here's  all  health  and  long 
life  and  prosperity  to  you  and  your  Zena  ! ' 

" '  You  must  surely  know  her  by  sight,'  I 
said  to  Matteo ;  '  for  there 's  hardly  a  gondo- 
lier on  the  Riva  who  would  n't  know  whom 
you  meant  by  La  Biotidina.^ 

"He  did  n't  reply  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
when  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  somewhat  strained 
voice,  — 

*' '  Yes,  I  know  whom  you  mean.  She  is 
beautiful,  without  doubt.  But  I  'm  not  on 
speaking  terms  with  old  Salvatore,  for  some 
five  or  six  years  ago  he  used  language  in 
public  about  my  father  for  which  I  have 
never  forgiven  him.  He  may  thank  his  grey 
hairs  he  has  n't  had  the  feel  of  a  knife  between 
his  ribs  before  this.' 

"  1  knew  this  was  dangerous  ground,  so  I 


196  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

began  at  once  to  talk  about  the  delights  of 
getting  away  from  shipboard,  and  of  being  free 
once  more.  Before  long  our  watch  was  up, 
and  I,  at  any  rate,  was  not  long  in  falling  fast 
asleep.  For  some  reason  I  can't  explain,  my 
first  thought,  when  I  awoke,  was  connected 
with  what  Matteo  had  been  saying  about 
blondes.  I  laughed  at  myself  for  my  folly ;  but 
do  what  I  would,  a  vague  uneasiness  took  pos- 
session of  me,  and  I  began  to  think  that  it  was, 
after  all,  very  strange  I  had  not  heard  from 
Zena  for  so  long.  I  remembered  now,  what  I 
had  merely  chuckled  at  in  my  sleeve  before: 
that,  in  the  last  letter  I  had  received,  my  sweet- 
heart had  mentioned  her  grandfather's  having 
urged  her  to  marry  Filippo  Faccioli,  a  middle- 
aged  and  very  well-to-do  ship-chandler,  who 
had  a  flourishing  business  on  the  Fondamenta 
del  Ponte  Luongo,  in  the  Giudecca,  and  who  had 
offered,  in  a  conversation  with  old  Salvatore, 
to  take  her  with  or  without  dowry.  The  mo- 
ment this  recollection  flashed  across  my  mind  I 
indignantly  put  it  aside  again,  as  I  knew  Zena 
too  well  to  suppose  she  would  marry  any  man, 
however  rich,  while  she  loved  another.  Never- 
theless,  I   felt  uncomfortable   all  day,  all  the 


A   Venetian  Idyl.  197 

more  as  the  expected  letter  had  not  arrived. 
In  tWe  afternoon  I  was  down  below,  mending 
some  clothes,  and  did  not  notice  a  government 
cutter  come  alongside  ;  but  in  less  than  half  an 
hour  thereafter  I  heard  the  word  'letters' 
spoken  by  some  one,  and  you  may  imagine  I 
bundled  up  quick  enough.  Most  of  the  letters 
had  been  distributed  by  the  time  I  got  to  the 
quarter-deck  ;  but  at  last  my  name  was  called 
out,  and  I  stepped  forward  and  received  my 
precious  note,  retiring  with  it  at  once  to  the 
quietest  spot  I  could  find. 

"I  had  not  till  then  realised  how  much 
Matteo's  malicious  sneer  had  affected  me. 
The  reaction  of  a  glad  certainty  was  so  great 
that  the  tears  were  in  my  eyes,  and  my  hands 
trembled  as  I  opened  the  envelope.  At  this 
moment  I  heard  Matteo's  voice  behind  me 
whispering,  '  Well,  good  news,  I  hope  ? '  and 
on  the  impulse  I  handed  the  note  to  him,  beg- 
ging him  to  read  it  out  to  me,  as  I  couldn't 
spell  through  it  quick  enough  for  my  impa- 
tience. He  took  it  without  a  word,  and  began, 
•  Dear  Luigi,'  and  then  abruptly  stopped,  and 
seemed  to  be  glancing  through  the  rest  of  the 
letter. 


198  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

"'Well,'  said  I,  'seeing  that  that  letter  is 
addressed  to  me,  I  think  you  might  as  well 
read  it  aloud  instead  of  perusing  it  from  begin- 
ning to  end  by  yourself.' 

" '  Don't  be  angry,  Luigi  caro^  he  replied ; 
'  there  is  bad  news  in  it,  old  friend,  I  am  sorry 
to  say.' 

"  '  In  Heaven's  name  what  is  it  ? '  I  cried  out, 
with  sudden  pain.  '  Is  there  anything  wrong 
with  Zena  ? ' 

" '  Do  you  remember  my  idle  words  about 
blondes  last  night?'  Matteo  replied,  in  a  quick 
low  tone;  and  then,  seeing  the  expression  of 
agony  I  felt  must  be  in  my  face,  he  added, 
'  See,  caro  Luigi,  a  lance-thrust  is  a  painful 
thing,  but  it  is  better  than  the  setting-in  of  a 
disease ;  be  a  man,  and  bear  what  many  an- 
other has  had  to  bear  before  you.  I  '11  read 
you  the  girl's  note  :  — 

"  '  Dear  Luigi,  —  I  know  this  letter  will  bring  you 
a  great  disappointment.  I  would  n't  have  minded 
it  so  much  if  I  thought  you  had  consoled  yourself 
for  my  absence  in  any  of  the  ports  you  have  been 
visiting ;  but  as  you  swear  in  your  last  letter  that  you 
have  been  true  to  me  all  along,  I  believe  you. 

"  '  It 's  not  my  fault,  Luigi,  that  a  rich  neighbour 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  199 

has  fallen  in  love  with  me,  but  such  is  the  case,  and 
my  grandfather  has  insisted  on  my  accepting  him. 
He  told  me  that  he  had  lost  everything  in  the  world 
by  an  unfortunate  speculation,  and  that  if  not  for 
my  own  sake,  at  least  for  his,  I  must  not  refuse  this 
splendid  chance.  I  did  n't  tell  him  I  expected  you 
home  again  before  long,  as  this  would  just  have  irri- 
tated him  to  no  good  end.  And  to  be  quite  honest, 
Luigi,  I  must  tell  you  that  for  some  time  past  I  have 
doubted  if  I  were  fitted  for  you,  and  if  we  should  be 
happy.  I  am  afraid  not,  and  this  gives  me  more 
courage  in  writing  to  tell  you  that,  before  you  re- 
ceive this  letter,  I  shall  be  married  to  our  rich  neigh- 
bour, whose  name  I  will  not  give  you,  in  case  you 
should  curse  him  in  your  anger. 

"'Try  to  forgive  me,  dear  Luigi,  and  believe  that 
I  am  acting'for  the  best. 

"  '  Still  your  friend,  I  sign  myself  for  the  last  time, 

" '  Zena  Agujani.' 

"While  this  letter  was  being  read  to  me  I 
felt  as  if  the  vessel  was  sinking  under  my  feet, 
and  then  as  if  every  drop  in  my  body  was  surg- 
ing round  my  heart  or  throbbing  in  my  temples. 
A  blind  flood  of  furj'  suddenly  overcame  me, 
and  snatching  the  letter  from  Matteo's  hands  I 
cursed  Zena  as  a  heartless  jilt  and  hypocrite. 
After  that,  I  rushed  away  to  the  foc's'le,  where 


200  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

I  threw  myself  upon  my  back,  to  spend  the  most 
agonising  hours  I  had  ever  experienced. 

"  After  what  seemed  to  me  weeks  of  misery  I 
rose,  and  with  trembling  hands  wrote  out  in 
my  crabbed  letters  the  following  brief  note :  — 

" '  To  Zen  A  Agujani,  —  You  will  never  hear  from 
me  again. 

" '  LuiGi  Tremazzi.'  " 

"  This  I  likewise  myself  addressed  to  '  La 
gentilezza  signorina  Zena  Agujani,  al'casa  del 
Signor  Salvatore  Agujani,  Riva  degli  Schi- 
avoni,  13^,  Venezia.' 

"  Next  morning  this  letter  went  on  its  way ; 
and  as  I  saw  the  post-bag  handed  over  the  side 
of  the  '  Fiamma  '  I  felt  as  if  all  the  happiness  of 
my  life  went  with  it  also. 

"  But  before  I  was  summoned  again  on  deck 
for  my  watch,  a  sudden  suspicion  about  Matteo 
flashed  across  my  mind.  His  conduct  was 
strange  the  night  before,  and  even  during  the 
agony  of  hearing  Zena's  letter  read,  I  remem- 
bered noting  that  a  peculiar  expression,  almost 
of  mocking  triumph,  gleamed  upon  my  comrade's 
face.  .Quick  as  thought  I  pulled  out  the  letter 
and  slowly  spelt  it  out;  but  every  word   from 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  201 

•  Dear  Luigi '  down  to  '  Zena  Agujani '  was 
just  "as  Matteo  had  read.  My  suspicion  van- 
ished almost  as  swiftly  as  it  had  arisen,  and 
when  I  went  on  deck  I  was  able  to  disguise 
the  utterance  of  my  misery  even  from  him. 
Before  we  turned  in  again,  I  told  him  that  of 
course  everything  was  over  between  Zena  and 
myself,  and  that  the  one  request  of  him  I  had 
to  make  was  that  he  was  never  to  mention  her 
name  to  me  again. 

"  '  I  promise,'  he  said  ;  '  but  first  let  me  ask 
you  if  you  have  destroyed  her  letter.  I  would 
if  I  were  you.  You  'II  never  forget  her  treach- 
ery as  long  as  you  have  it  with  you.' 

"When  I  told  him  that  I  had  not  and  did 
not  mean  to  destroy  the  letter,  I  saw  him  biting 
his  lips  as  though  repressing  some  hasty  ex- 
clamation ;  but  he  said  no  more,  then  or  later. 
Before  coming  on  deck  I  had  buried  the  cruel 
note  at  the  bottom  of  my  box,  because,  though 
I  would  not  destroy  it,  I  could  not  bear  to  carry 
it  about  with  me.  I  slept  little  during  that 
night,  and  as  the  dim  morning  light  began  to 
steal  in,  I  lay  with  half-closed  eyes,  drowsily 
thinking  of  my  ruined  hopes  and  of  my  acute 
misery.     While  thus  thinking,  my  eyes,  uncon- 


202  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

sciously  to  myself,  kept  watching  one  of  my 
comrades,  who  seemed  to  be  looking  for  his 
clothes,  near  where  my  own  were  laid.  The 
man  suddenly  looked  up,  and  instinctively  I 
almost  wholly  closed  my  eyes.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments I  opened  them  again,  and  perceived  that 
the  man  was  Matteo,  and  that  he  was  feel- 
ing in  the  pockets  not  of  his  own  clothes  but 
of  mine.  Something  in  his  stealthy  movements 
made  me  suspicious.  After  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, I  sprang  from  my  bunk  and  asked  him 
what  he  was  doing  with  my  things.  I  noticed 
that  his  first  instinct  was  to  snatch  the  knife 
from  the  belt  that  lay  alongside ;  but  the  next 
moment  he  turned  and  stammered  out, — 

"  '  What  do  you  mean  ? '  adding  immediately, 
'  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  see  these  are  your 
things  ;  I  thought  they  were  mine  ;  I  wanted  to 
get  out  a  piece  of  'baccy  I  left  in  one  of  the 
pockets  last  night.' 

"  With  that  he  turned  away  at  once ;  and 
though  I  could  say  nothing  more,  it  struck  me 
as  strange  that  any  one  innocent  of  any  under- 
hand transaction  should  have  been  so  startled, 
and  should  have  stammered  out  so  vague  ex- 
cuses with  so  white  a  face.     Even  then  it  struck 


^   A  Venetian  Idyl,  203 

me  tjjat  Matteo,  if  nothing  worse,  must  surely 
be  a  coward. 

"  Well,  Signori,  time  went  "by,  and  at  last  the 
day  came  when  a  lot  of  us  got  our  official  dis- 
charge, duly  signed  and  attested,  and  were 
allowed  to  get  ashore  at  Spezzia,  free  men  once 
more,  Matteo  and  myself  being  among  this 
fortunate  band. 

'■^ Ecco !  The  great  day  had  come  at  last; 
but  instead  of  being  overcome  with  joy,  I  wan- 
dered about  the  little  town  and  along  the  shores 
of  the  bay,  sobbing  every  now  and  again  with 
my  bitter  disappointment.  I  felt  half  inclined 
to  volunteer  to  go  to  sea  again,  and  it  was  con- 
siderably past  midnight  before  I  decided  to 
return  to  Venice;  but  on  inquiry  I  discovered 
that  the  night  train  for  Pisa  and  Florence  had 
gone,  and  that  I  should  have  to  wait  some 
hours.  Even  miserable  hours  —  which  the 
good  God  keep  from  you,  Signori  —  pass  some- 
how, and  in  due  time  I  found  myself  at  Pisa, 
then  at  Bologna,  and  finally  in  the  mail-train 
for  Venice.  I  heard  some  one  in  the  carriage 
saying  he  wished  he  could  have  left  Florence 
the  day  before,  so  as  to  have  spent  the  whole 
of  Corpus  Christi  with  his  friends,  and  by  that 


204  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

I  knew  that  this  day  of  miserable  return  was 
the  great  Festa,  the  same  on  which,  three  years 
ago,  I  had  asked  Zena  to  phght  me  her  troth. 
Well,  Signori,  to  make  a  short  ending  to  what 
I  'm  afraid  has  been  overlong  a  story,  I  ar- 
rived once  more  in  Venice,  between  four  and 
five  in  the  afternoon,  on  the  day  of  Corpus 
Christi.  A  sudden  fancy  took  me  when  I  got 
out  at  this  station.  Instead  of  going  to  look 
out  for  a  room  for  myself,  I  left  my  box  at 
the  station,  and,  having  jumped  into  a  gondola, 
told  its  owner  to  row  me  to  the  Fondamenta  del 
Ponte  Luongo,  on  the  Giudecca.  When  the 
gondola  slid  alongside  a  deserted-looking 
Traghetto,  I  told  the  man  to  wait,  and  then 
walked  slowly  along  the  bank  till  I  came  to 
the  shop  of  Faccioli,  the  ship-chandler,  whom 
I  had  never  doubted  to  be  the  man  who  had 
stolen  my  love  away  from  me.  While  standing 
near  the  house  and  casting  sidelong  glances 
up  at  its  windows,  a  cripple  hobbled  up  to  me 
and  begged  for  a  soldo  in  the  Virgin's  name ; 
but  before  paying  any  heed  to  his  request  I 
asked  him  (though  I  knew  it  well)  who  lived  in 
the  house  beside  us. 

" '  Why,  Signor  Faccioli,  of  course,  the  rich 
ship-chandler.' 


A  Venetian  Idyl,  205 

"  *  Ah  ! '  I  added,  '  then  I  suppose  you  often 
see  hfm  and  his  signora  come  in  and  out  ? ' 

" '  You  are  thinking  of  the  wrong  man,  signor 
captain,'  repHed  the  cripple,  obsequiously ;  '  the 
excellent  Filippo  Faccioli  has  no  wife,  though 
report  has  it  that  he  wanted  to  marry  a  golden- 
haired  child,  who  is  grand-daughter  to  old  Sal- 
vatore  Agujani,  who  is  a  —  ' 

"  Without  waiting  to  hear  any  more  I  flung 
a  half-dozen  soldi  to  the  astonished  beggar, 
and,  as  soon  as  I  had  regained  the  boat,  told 
the  gondolier  to  take  me  over  at  once  to 
the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni.  As  we  shot  along 
the  wide  lagoon,  with  the  Dogana  di  Mare 
on  the  left  and  the  Isle  of  St.  George  on 
the  right,  a  hundred  different  thoughts  coursed 
through  my  mind.  If  Zena  had  n't  married 
Signor  Faccioli,  whom  had  she  married  ?  or 
was  she  married  at  all  ?  or  was  it  that  death  had 
prevented  her  from  wedding  wealthy  Filippo? 
Or  had  she  jilted  him  even  as  she  had  done  me  .'' 
And  so  on,  over  and  over  again. 

When  I  landed  near  the  Piazzetta,  I  walked 
straight  toward  the  well-known  little  shop.  Just 
as  I  neared  it,  I  met  an  acquaintance,  who  told 
me  (after  some  inquiries   about  myself  which 


2o6  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

I  was  forced  to  answer)  that  he  had  that  mo- 
ment seen  old  Agujani  on  the  Piazza  listening 
to  the  band  which  was  amusing  every  one  till 
it  was  dark  enough  for  the  fireworks  and  the 
water-music  to  begin.  I  asked  him  as  calmly 
as  I  could  if  '  La  Biondina'  was  with  her  grand- 
father, and  he  replied  he  felt  sure  she  was  ;  '  for 
you  don't  catch  a  pretty  girl  staying  at  home 
on  the  eve  of  Corpus  Christi.' 

"  I  left  him  then,  and  his  assurances  having 
given  me  courage,  I  went  up  right  to  the  door 
of  the  old  shop.  I  don't  know  why  I  wanted  to 
see  it  again,  but  anyway  I  did  so  want ;  nor  do 
I  know  why  it  was  I  did  n't  think  the  door 
would  in  all  probability  be  locked,  but  here 
again  I  did  n't  think  anything  of  the  kind. 
With  my  heart  in  my  mouth,  so  to  speak,  I 
turned  the  handle  and  looked  in.  Some  one 
looked  up  and  uttered  a  short  cry.    It  was  Zena. 

"  The  next  moment  she  was  in  my  arms,  sob- 
bing and  kissing  me  by  turns,  and  I  doing 
pretty  much  the  same  thing.  Before  a  happy 
minute  was  out,  however,  she  sprang  back  from 
me,  and,  with  tears  still  glittering  in  her  eyes, 
asked  me  suddenly  what  I  meant  by  writing 
that  she  would  never  hear  from  me  again. 


A  Venetian   Idyl.  207 

.^ 

"  '  Here  I  've  been  sobbing  my  life  away  be- 
cause of  your  cruel  message  !  What  does  it 
mean,  Luigi  ?  Tell  me  at  once  —  are  you  mar- 
ried —  have  you  promised  any  other  girl  ? 
What  is  it  ?  —  tell  me  quick  ! ' 

"  I  stammered  out,  '  Why,  look  here,  Zena, 
it 's  I  that  want  to  know  what  you  mean  by 
writing  me  such  a  horrible  letter?' 

" '  What  letter  ? '  she  asked  in  evident  sur- 
prise. 

" '  This  one,'  I  said,  as  I  took  it  from  my 
pocket  and  showed  it  to  her,  and  then  slowly 
read  it  out  from  beginning  to  end. 

" '  And  you  believe  I  wrote  that  ? '  was  all 
she  said. 

"  In  a  moment  I  had  her  in  my  arms  again 
and  begged  her  to  forgive  me  ;  but  she  said  she 
would  not  till  this  matter  was  cleared  up.  So  I 
began  and  told  her  all  about  it ;  but  just  as  I 
was  describing  how  I  went,  immediately  after 
my  arrival  in  Venice,  to  look  at  the  house  of 
Signor  Faccioli,  she  cried  out,  — 

"  '  Why,  I  know  who  's  played  you  this  cruel 
trick  —  it  was  Matteo  Dk  Ru ! ' 

" '  What  on  earth  makes  you  think  so  ? '  I 
^sked,  already  half  convinced. 


208  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

" '  Well,  he  must  have  arrived  from  Spezzia 
by  an  earlier  train  than  you  did,  for  this  morning 
he  came  to  see  my  grandfather  and  immediately 
afterwards  implored  me  to  give  him  my  troth, 
swearing  that  he  had  loved  me  for  five  years 
past.  He  begged  for  my  love  so  passionately 
that  I  was  a  little  frightened ;  so  I  put  on  an 
appearance  of  anger,  and  said  scornfully  that  I 
would  never  wed  him,  even  if  I  were  free  and 
he  were  not  the  son  of  Alessandro  Dk  Ru. 
Seeing  I  was  in  earnest,  he  suddenly  drew  him- 
self up  and  left  the  room ;  but  as  he  did  so,  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  pale  face  almost  smil- 
ing, and  I  heard  him  muttering,  '  Well,  I  've 
had  my  revenge.' 

"  Ecco,  Signori !  there  's  my  story.  I  need  n't 
tell  you  much  more. 

"  We  soon  made  all  up  between  us  again, 
and  in  less  than  a  month  Zena  la  Bionda  and 
myself  were  married.  Old  Salvatore  dowered 
her  handsomely,  and  now,  with  the  profits  of  my 
own  gondola  in  addition,  we  are  able  to  have  all 
■we  want. 

"  Eh !  what  ?  you  want  to  know  what  about 
that  letter,  and  what  about  Matteo  ?    Well,  we 


A  Venetian  Idyl.  209 

took  the  letter  that  had  caused  so  much  trouble 
and  sdrrow  to  old  Antonio  Baruccio,  the  public 
scribe.     He  emphatically  denied  that  it  was  in 
his  handwriting,  and  he  suddenly  convinced  us 
by  showing  beyond  doubt  (what  I  never  thought 
of  comparing)  that  the  writing  on  the  envelope 
and  in  the  letter  were  decidedly  different.     We 
made  him  a  confidant  in  the  affair,  and  it  was 
he  who  probably  found  the  true  solution  when 
he  declared  that  Matteo    must   have   had   the 
letter  ready  beforehand,  and    managed   to   ex- 
change it  for  the  true  one  when  I  handed  him 
the  letter  to   read.     '  It   was   a  very  different 
note  that  I  wrote  last  from  the  signorina's  dic- 
tation,' added  old   Baruccio,  with  a  sly  laugh. 
Thereafter  I  -sent  Matteo  a  note  to  his  father's 
house  at  Chioggia,  and  in  that  note  I  told  him 
I  had  found  out  his  treachery,  and  that  he  had 
better  keep  out  of   my  way  for  some  time  to 
come.     I  added  that  I  had  kept  the  forged  let- 
ter, and  intended  handing  it  over  to  the  police. 
I  got  no  answer  to  this  note ;  but  a  few  days 
later    I    heard   that   he    had    joined   '  La  Bella 
Bianca,'  a   merchant-ship   trading  between    Li- 
vorno  and  San  Francisco,  and  that  he  intended 
to  settle  down  either  in  the  latter  place  or  in 


2IO  A  Venetian  Idyl. 

Melbourne,  where,  amongst  the  small  Italian 
colony,  he  had  a  well-to-do  cousin.  Anyway, 
he  disappeared  from  this  neighbourhood,  and  we 
have  heard  or  seen  nothing  of  him  since. 

"  We  are  very  happy,  Signori,  and  if  our  little 
baby-girl  (whom  we  named  Gioja,  because  of 
the  joy  she  brought  us)  grows  up  to  be  as  fair  a 
woman  as  her  mother,  I  hope  when  her  time 
comes  that  no  '  Matteo  '  will  come  between  her 
and  her  lover,  to  make  their  waiting  perilous 
and  hard  to  bear." 

Thus  Luigi  finished  his  Venetian  Idyl.  We 
waited  an  hour  or  two  longer  under  the  cool 
and  shadowy  acacias  of  San  Nicoletto ;  and 
then  within  about  half  an  hour  of  sunset  we  left 
the  Lido  and  sailed  homeward  past  the  desolate 
Jewish  cemeterj',  where  the  dishonoured  grave- 
stones lie  broken  and  half  sunk  amongst  the 
nettles  and  scarlet  poppies  that  grow  upon  the 
barren  sand.  As  the  prow  of  the  gondola 
pointed  straight  between  the  Isola  di  San 
Giorgio  and  the  Punta  Motta,  we  saw  Venice 
as  she  is  not  often  seen,  except  in  the  sultry 
heats  of  late  July  or  August.  To  the  west, 
between  Fusina  and  Mestre,  the  sky  was  of  a 


^  A  Venetian  Idyl.  21 1 

black-purple,  with  a  long  broad  band  of  orange- 
gold  running  through  it.  Nearer,  overhead, 
flakes  and  curdled  drifts  of  fiery  crimson  clouds 
spread  out  their  fringed  edges  like  red  sea-weed 
torn  and  serrated  by  a  furious  tide ;  and  over 
and  beyond  Venice  itself  great  masses  of  cloud, 
tinged  with  lurid  purplish  russet  and  vivid 
bronze,  slowly  mounted  upward  and  inter- 
mingled. Erelong  we  lost  sight  of  this  stormy 
splendour,  for  only  a  small  portion  of  the  sky 
was  visible  before  us  as  we  shot  past  the  noble 
pile  of  the  Salute. 

We  had  hardly  drawn  up  at  our  Traghetto, 
before  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning  darted  in  a 
long  level  line  right  from  San  Stefano  past 
La  Fenice,  'followed  immediately  by  a  wild 
crash  of  thunder.  How  the  rain  came  down 
thereafter  !  It  was  as  though  a  flood  were  whirl- 
ing earthwards  in  deluging  spray.  Sitting  com- 
fortably drinking  our  coffee,  we  felt  glad  that 
our  friend  Luigi  had  a  cosy  home  to  take  shel- 
ter in,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  we  rather  envied 
him  the  greeting  he  was  sure  to  get  from  Zena 
la  Bionda  and  the  crowing  welcome  of  the  little 
Gioja. 


THE    GRAVEN   IMAGE. 


The   Graven   Image. 

Being  the  Narrative  of  James  Trenairy. 


There  is  an  old  house  in  Kensington  which 
is  to  me,  dweller  in  the  remotest  part  of  Corn- 
wall though  I  am,  the  most  solitary  place  I 
know.  It  is  not  far  from  the  eastern  boundary 
of  Holland  Park,  yet,  I  am  sure,  few  even  of 
the  residents  on  Campden  Hill,  or  other  Ken- 
singtonians,  are  aware  of  its  existence. 

The  house  is  a  small  square  building,  set  far 
back  in  a  walled  garden.  The  approach  is  by 
an  unattractive  byway,  which  has  all  the  ap- 
pearance oi-SLCid-de-sac,  though  there  is  really  a 
narrow  outlet  which  leads  ultimately  to  High 
Street. 

''  The  Mulberries,"  as  it  is  called,  was,  some 
years  ago,  occupied  by  my  father's  old  friend, 
John  Tregarthen  :  as  it  was,  in  years  back,  by 
at  least  three  successive  John  Tregarthens  be- 


2i6  The  Graven  Image. 

fore  him.  The  Tregarthens  have  always  been 
a  solitary  and  even  somewhat  eccentric  race, 
but  where  the  last  representative  of  the  family 
differed  from  his  kin  was  in  his  dislike  to  his 
native  Cornwall.  He  was  the  most  confirmed 
Londoner  I  have  ever  known,  though  by  this  I 
mean  only  that  he  never  left  the  metropolis, 
and  seldom  roamed  beyond  Kensington.  So 
far  as  social  intercourse  was  concerned,  how- 
ever, he  might  as  well  have  lived  in  the  light- 
house of  Tre  Pol,  or  at  his  own  desolate 
ancestral  home,  Garvel  Manor. 


-» 


In  the  autumn  of  last  year,  on  my  way  to 
spend  the  winter  in  Italy,  I  stayed  for  a  few 
days  in  London.  One  afternoon  I  was  in  the 
Campden  Hill  neighbourhood,  vainly  in  search 
of  the  studio  of  an  artist  friend,  who  seemed  to 
me  to  have  done  his  utmost  to  make  his  abode 
indiscoverable.  It  was  while  on  this  quest  that 
I  meandered  through  small  streets  and  byways, 
and  found  myself  at  last  at  an  unkempt  gate- 
way, whereon  I  could  just  decipher  the  words, 
"  The  Mulberries." 

I  confess  that  I  had  forgotten  the  very  exist- 
ence of  Mr.  John  Tregarthen.     Several  years 


The  Graven  Image.  217 

had  passed  since  my  father's  death,  and  I  had 
nevrf  had  occasion  to  communicate  with  the 
owner  of  "The  Mulberries."  Now,  however, 
that  I  was  there,  I  was  prompted  by  various 
feeUngs,  but  particularly  by  that  clannish  senti- 
ment which  distinguishes  the  true  Cornishman, 
to  seek  Mr.  Tregarthen  himself. 

To  avoid  needless  details,  I  may  say  at  once, 
and  succinctly,  that  I  found  Mr.  Tregarthen 
within ;  that  he  gave  me  a  cordial  welcome,  — 
cordial,  that  is,  for  a  man  of  so  austere  a  life 
and  so  sombre  a  cast  of  mind;  and  that  I  was 
persuaded  to  remove  my  impedimenta  from  my 
Bloomsbury  hotel,  and  to  spend  my  two  remain- 
ing spare  nights  at  "  The  Mulberries." 

When,  a-  few  hours  later,  I  drove  up  to  the 
house  and  rang  the  gate-bell,  I  feared  that  my 
host  had  forgotten  our  appointment  and  gone 
off  on  some  errand  or  walk.  Time  after  time  I 
rang,  but  without  any  result;  and  as  a  dull 
November  rain  was  drip-dripping  from  the  few 
discoloured  leaves  still  clinging  to  the  chestnuts 
and  elms,  my  position  was  not  an  agreeable 
one. 

At  last,  however,  Mr.  Tregarthen  came  slowly 
along  the  garden  path  and  opened  the  door  to 


2i8  The  Graven  Image. 

me.  In  the  misty  gloom,  unrelieved  by  even  a 
flickering  gas-jet,  I  could  not  discern  his  fea- 
tures ;  but  I  fancied  that  he  spoke  constrainedly, 
and,  indeed,  as  if  he  had  already  repented  of 
his  pressing  invitation. 

True,  when  once  we  were  housed  from  the  rain 
and  chill,  and  the  outer  world  was,  as  it  were, 
locked  away  for  the  night,  he  became  more 
genial,  and  even  expressed  heartily  his  pleasure 
at  seeing  me  there  as  his  guest.  None  the  less, 
so  gloomy  was  the  lonely,  silent  house,  so 
cheerless  the  aspect  of  the  room  where  we  sat, 
notwithstanding  the  bright  flame  of  a  wood  fire 
and  the  yellow  glow  of  a  large  reading-lamp, 
that  I  could  not  but  regret  the  cheerful,  if  com- 
monplace comforts  of  my  hotel,  the  opulence  of 
light  and  sound,  the  pleasant  intimacy  of  famil- 
iar things  enjoyed  in  common. 

Still,  I  enjoyed  my  evening.  We  had  a  very 
simple  dinner,  for  Mr.  Tregarthen's  one  servant, 
an  elderly  Cornishwoman,  was  no  vagrant  from 
the  culinary  straight  path  to  which  she  had 
been  accustomed  in  her  youth ;  but  the  wine 
was  exceptionally  good.  My  host  talked  well 
and  intelligently,  and,  recluse  though  he  was,  I 
could  see  that  he  took  at  least  a  casual  interest 


The  Graven  Image.  219 

in  the  various  matters  of  international  policy 
whiclywere  at  that  time  occupying  so  much 
attention  in  the  press. 

After  dinner  we  adjourned  to  a  small  room, 
which  he  told  me  was  his  sanctum.  There  we 
had  coffee,  and  sat  for  a  long  time  in  silence, 
watching  the  play  of  the  firelight  along  the 
dark  bookcases  which  lined  the  room,  and  lis- 
tening to  the  dreary  intermittent  cry  of  the 
autumnal  wind.  Mr.  Tregarthen  had  either 
forgotten,  or  had  intentionally  omitted,  the 
lighting  of  his  lamp.  Though  in  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances, nothing  delights  me  more  than  to 
sit  and  dream  by  the  fireside  in  a  dark  room, 
I  admit  that  on  this  occasion  I  should  have 
preferred  the  serene  company  of  a  lamp,  or 
even  the  unwavering  effrontery  of  a  gas  jet. 
Again,  I  am  a  smoker,  though  indifferent  to 
the  pipe,  and  I  could  not  but  yearn  for  that 
postprandial  luxury  to  which  I  had  grown  so 
accustomed.  No  cigar  was  offered,  however, 
and  I  was  quick  to  discover  proofs  that  tobacco 
in  any  form  was  not  to  be  found  at  "  The 
Mulberries." 

After  a  long  silence,  following  some  casual 
chit-chat  about  the  places  in  Italy  where  I  hoped 


220  The  Graven  Image. 

to  sojourn,  my  host  suddenly  made  a  remark 
that  surprised  me,  wholly  inconsequent  as  it 
seemed. 

"  You  never  knew  him,  did  you  ?  " 

Again  I  noticed  that  strange  constraint  of 
voice,  as  if  the  mouth  spoke  while  the  mind 
was  otherwise  preoccupied. 

"  Him  .  .  .  whom  ?  " 

"  My  brother  Richard." 

"  No,  never.     I  heard  —  " 

"What  have  you  heard?"  broke  in  Mr. 
Tregarthen,  at  once  so  imperiously  and  so 
sharply,  and  with  so  keen  an  accompanying 
glance  the  while  he  stooped  in  order  to  scruti- 
nise me  more  fully  in  the  upswing  of  the  flame, 
that  I  realised  his  constraint  was  due  to  no  mere 
dreamy  indolence  of  mind. 

"  Oh,  merely  that  he  was  always  a  wanderer, 
and  that  he  came  here  at  last  broken  in  health, 
and  died  of  some  long-standing  but  mysterious 
trouble." 

"  Ah  ! "  ejaculated  my  companion,  and  said 
no  more.  I  did  not  care  to  broach  the  subject 
again,  for  I  knew  that  it  was  one  which  could 
not  be  welcome.  Indeed,  I  had  heard  more 
than  I  was  willing  to  admit  to  Mr.  Tregarthen, 


The  Graven  Image.  221 

_>* 
though  I  knew  not  how  much  was  mere  rumour. 
I  remembered,  however,  that  my  father,  a  man 
as  exact  in  the  spirit  of  his  statements  as  pre- 
cise in  the  expression  of  them,  had  told  me  of 
some  tragic  misunderstanding  having  long  sep- 
arated John  and  Richard  Tregarthen,  and  that 
there  was  something  very  strange  in  the  return 
of  the  younger  to  his  brother's  house,  whence 
he  had  departed  years  before  with  a  curse  upon 
him  heavy  as  woe  and  unforgettable  as  death. 
Moreover,  I  recollected  some  vague  particulars 
concerning  a  beautiful  girl,  one  Catherine  Tre- 
gaskis,  belonging  to  an  old  family  neighbouring 
our  own,  whom,  as  I  understood,  both  men  had 
loved,  and  who,  in  the  manner  of  women,  was 
a  cause  of  infinite  disturbance  to  both. 

I  was  about  to  rise  at  last,  for  a  fret  of 
impatience  was  on  me.  The  dull  sound  of  the 
wind  had  grown  to  a  moaning  sough,  that,  in 
my  then  mood,  could  be  hearkened  with  equa- 
nimity only  in  affluence  of  light  and  comfort.  I 
thought  that  if  I  went  to  the  bookcase  near  the 
fire  my  host  would  suggest  the  lighting  of  the 
lamp  ;  but  before  I  stirred,  he  broke  the  silence 
once  more. 

"  We  have  scarce  spoken  of  our  own  parts 


222  The  Graven  Image. 

yet.  I  wish  to  know  something  about  our 
neighbours  of  old.  Tell  me,  who  lives  now  at 
Malfont?  Is  James  Tregaskis  still  alive  and 
well.?" 

*'  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  Mr.  Tregaskis  is  still 
alive,  though  he  lives  in  as  recluse  a  fashion 
as  you  do.  His  wife  died  three  years  ago. 
Childless  and  wifeless,  the  old  man  is  very 
lonely.  He  has  never  been  himself  since  — 
since  —  " 

Here  I  stopped,  embarrassed  ;  but  Mr.  Tre- 
garthen  quietly  finished  my  sentence,  — 

*'  Since  the  death  of  his  daughter  Catherine, 
you  were  going  to  say  ?  " 

I  bowed  slightly  in  affirmation. 

"Will  you  tell  me  the  actual  wording  of  the 
inscription  on  the  memorial  tablet  which  he  has 
raised  in  the  family  burial-ground  behind  the 
little  private  chapel  on  Malfont  Heath?" 

"Well  —  to  say  the  truth,  I  don't  know  — 
that  is  to  say,  I  have  forgotten,"  I  muttered, 
confusedly,  reluctant  as  I  was  to  communicate 
anything  on  a  subject  fraught  with  so  much 
that  would  be  painful. 

"  Does  it  run  thus?  "  went  on  Mr.  Tregarthen, 
quietly,  though   with  a  suggestion  of  irony  in 


The  Graven  Image.  223 

his  voice.  "  Does  it  run  thus,  for  I  am  sure 
you  cen  at  least  correct  me  if  I  am  wrong? 
First,  the  date  of  the  year ;    and  then  — 

"  'To  THE  Memory 
of 
Edward  Tregaskis,  aged  29  :  Slain  in  war. 
Olivia  Tregaskis,  aged  26  :  Drowned  at  sea. 
Catherine  Tregaskis,  aged  25  :  Not  yet  avenged.' 

Tell  me,  am  I  right  ? " 

I  admitted  that  he  was,  and  even  ventured 
to  add  that  in  our  neighbourhood  people  thought 
trouble  had  perverted  James  Tregaskis'  judg- 
ment. 

"  And,  of  course,"  I  went  on,  "  when  he  lost 
his  youngest  and  best-loved  child,  the  third 
terrible  bereavement  in  a  single  year,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  he  imagined  vain  things,  and 
turned  away  from  those  who  would  have  won 
him  to  a  more  generous,  if  not  a  more  resigned, 
view." 

Mr.  Tregarthen  looked  at  me  curiously,  and 
I  fancied  that  for  a  moment  a  sarcastic  smile 
hovered  across  his  face. 

He  said  no  more,  however.  After  a  brief 
interval  he  rose  abruptly,  lighted  the  lamp,  and 


224  The  Graven  Image. 

drew  my  attention  to  some  rare  books  on 
Etrurian  remains  which  he  thought  would  in- 
terest me,  as  I  was  on  my  way  to  Volterra  and 
other  dead  cities  and  towns  of  the  Etruscan 
region. 

I  am  not  accustomed  to  late  hours,  and  I 
suppose  that  I  showed  the  weariness  I  felt.  At 
any  rate,  when  my  host  asked  me  if  I  was 
inclined  to  go  to  my  room,  I  assented  gladly. 

Yet,  when  I  was  alone,  my  sense  of  sleep 
was  no  longer  a  pleasant  languor.  The  room 
was  a  long  oak-panelled  chamber,  both  in  height 
and  appearance  quite  unlike  what  one  would 
expect  from  an  outside  view  of  "  The  Mulber- 
ries.*' The  bed,  an  old-fashioned  four  poster 
with  heavy  hangings,  stood  with  its  back  to  the 
same  wall  in  which  was  the  door;  beyond  it,  on 
the  right,  was  a  fireplace,  in  which  one  or  two 
logs  sullenly  smouldered.  For  the  rest,  there  was 
nothing  but  a  few  stiff  chairs  set  along  the  dark 
panelled  walls,  and  a  great  gaunt  badly-carved 
escritoire  and  bookcase  of  bog-oak. 

I  do  not  like  gloomy  rooms,  and  so  it  was 
natural  that  I  should  again  think  with  regret  of 
my  comfortable  lodging  at  the  hotel,  where,  for 
old  associations'  sake,  I  always  put  up  when  I 


The  Graven  Image.  225 

go  to  London.     But  I  had  the  good  sense  to 
undres<  and  go  to  bed,  hopeful  of  sleep. 

Whether  it  was  the  singular  silence  within, 
or  the  moaning  voice  of  the  wind  without,  with 
a  swift  slash  of  rain  ever  and  again  upon  the 
panes,  or  the  coffee  I  had  drunk,  or  I  know  not 
what,  but  sleep  I  could  not.  The  longer  I  lay 
the  more  restless  I  became,  and  at  last  I  thought 
I  would  rise  and  see  if  there  were  any  readable 
volumes  in  the  oak  bookcase. 

There  were  not,  and  I  turned  discontentedly 
to  the  fire,  which  I  had  replenished  before  I 
went  to  bed.  I  leaned  on  the  mantelpiece  for 
some  time,  looking  into  the  flickering  tongues 
and  jets  of  red  and  yellow  flame  beneath,  when 
I  chanced  at  last  to  stand  back  and  look  up. 

For  the  first  time  I  noticed  that  what  seemed 
a  large  bronze  bas-relief  was  deeply  set  in  the 
wall.  I  know  not  why  I  had  not  noticed  it 
before ;  doubtless  because  the  fire  was  low  and 
the  shadow  deep,  while  I  had  not  moved  the 
candle  away  from  the  small  book-table  near  the 
door  where  I  had  placed  it  on  entrance. 

I  was  glad  of  anything  to  distract  me.  So  I  lit 
my  candle,  and  held  it  so  that  I  could  scrutinise 
the  ornament,  as  it  appeared  to  be.   I  saw  at  once 

15 


226  The  Graven  Image. 

that  it  was  something  out  of  the  common.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  sheet  of  bronze  or  copper,  along 
the  sides  and  at  the  base  and  summit  of  which 
were  strange  and  perplexing  arabesques  and 
other  designs,  most  notably  what  I  presumed  to 
be  flaming  swords,  somewhat  as  represented  by 
Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

But  in  the  centre  was  a  head,  life-size,  which 
so  far  as  I  could  tell  was  moulded  in  wax,  hard- 
ened and  tinted. 

I  did  not  apprehend  these  and  other  details 
till  later,  for  my  first  feeling  was  one  of  startled 
curiosity,  my  second  of  something  akin  to  fear. 

The  face  was  that  of  a  woman ;  no  doubt,  of 
a  beautiful  woman,  though  the  expression  was 
so  evil,  or,  rather,  I  should  say,  so  forbidding, 
that  I  was  blind  to  the  native  loveliness  of  the 
features. 

What  amazed  me  was  the  extraordinary  life- 
likeness.  The  face  before  me  seemed  almost  as 
though  it  were  alive.  The  clustering  black  hair, 
drawn  back  from  the  high  pale  brows,  appeared 
to  droop  with  its  own  weight;  the  compressed 
mouth,  the  distended  nostrils,  the  intent  star- 
ing gaze,  simulated  a  painful  and  distressing 
actuality. 


The  Graven  Image.  227 

For  some  time  I  was  fascinated  by  this 
Strang^  portrait  or  imaginative  study.  I  re- 
garded it  with  something  of  the  same  blended 
curiosity  and  repugnance  with  which  most  of  us 
look  at  some  rare  and  terrible  reptile.  No,  I 
felt  sure,  that  woman  lived  once  ;  through  those 
sombre  eyes  came  fire  of  passionate  love  or 
passionate  hate;  from  those  delicately-curved 
lips  issued  words  fanged  with  scorn  or  sweet 
with  perilous  seduction. 

At  last  I  scrutinised  the  base.  There,  wrought 
in  deep,  strong  lines,  I  read  : 

"The  Graven  Image:" 

with  below  it  the  words, 

"  Lo,  I  made  unto  myself  a  graven  image.,  that 
unto  the  end  of  my  days  the  eyes  of  the  body 
should  likewise  know  no  peace. ''^ 

The  inscription  was  mysterious,  —  nay,  I  ad- 
mit that  to  me  it  had  a  terrifying  suggestiveness. 

I  could  look  no  more.  Had  I  not  been 
ashamed  of  mv  weakness,  I  should  have  dressed 
and  gone  down  to  the  sitting-room.  Deter- 
mined, however,  not  to  yield  to  my  nervous 
disquiet,  I  went  back  to  my  bed.     It  was  with 


228  The  Graven  Image. 

a  sense  of  relief  that  I  felt  my  weariness  grow- 
ing upon  me,  and  the  stealthy  tide  of  sleep  draw 
nearer  and  nearer. 

When  I  awoke,  I  know  not  how  much  later, 
it  was  with  that  abrupt  sickening  sensation 
which  is  indescribable,  but  is  familiar  to  any 
one  who  has  been  aroused  by  the  unheard  but 
subtly  apprehended  entrance  of  another  person 
into  the  room. 

I  lay  for  a  few  moments  in  a  cold  perspira- 
tion, trembling  the  while  as  though  in  terror. 
Then  I  opened  my  eyes. 

I  did  not  need  to  raise  myself.  The  fire  was 
burning  dimly,  but  I  could  clearly  see  a  woman 
standing  beside  it,  looking  fixedly  into  its  em- 
bers. So  much  of  her  face  as  was  turned 
towards  me  was  in  deep  shadow.  She  was  tall, 
and  of  a  fine  grace  of  figure,  and  though  simply 
dressed  in  a  long  gown  of  a  soft  gray  material,  I 
imagined  her  to  be  of  good  birth  and  breeding. 

I  know  not  how  it  was  that  for  that  brief 
while  fear  left  me,  and  that  I  could  lie  and 
speculate  thus  quietly.  I  perceived,  of  course, 
that  my  visitor  was  not  Mr.  Tregarthen's  old 
servant,  but  it  occurred  to  me  that  she  might 
be  an  inmate  of  the  house.     For  all  I  knew  to 


JThe  Graven  Image.  229 

the  contrary,  Mr.  Tregarthen  might  be  married  ; 
and,  if  so,  this  might  be  his  wife  or  daughter 
come  to  my  room  unknowing  me  to  be  there,  or, 
mayhap,  as  a  victim  to  somnambuHsm. 

But  when  suddenly  a  flame  spurted  upward 
from  the  heart  of  the  fire,  almost  simultane- 
ously with  the  sound  of  an  approaching  step 
along  the  passage,  and  the  woman  turned  her 
face  towards  the  door,  so  that  I  saw  it  plainly, 
my  heart  seemed  as  though  it  would  burst. 

For  with  a  sense  of  unutterable  fear  I  recog- 
nised in  a  flash  the  beautiful  but  terrifying  face 
of  the  "Graven  Image." 

Startling  as  was  the  discovery,  I  had  no  time 
for  thought,  even  if  I  had  not  lain  as  though 
paralysed. 

The  vindictive  fury  and  scorn  that  shone  in 
her  eyes  affrighted  me.  If  it  was  Mr.  Tre- 
garthen who  had  come  along  the  passage  and 
was  now  knocking  slowly  at  the  door,  his  recep- 
tion promised  to  be  a  dramatic  one. 

Whether  the  door  opened  or  not,  I  cannot 
say.  All  I  know  is  that  I  saw  the  woman  draw 
back,  as  a  tall  dark  man,  whose  features  were 
quite  unknown  to  me,  slowly  advanced. 

Neither  seemed  to  be  aware  of  my  presence; 
certainly  they  took  no  note  of  it. 


230  The  Graven  Image. 

I  wondered  he  did  not  quail  under  that  fierce, 
that  inexpressibly  malignant  scorn. 

As  it  was,  he  stopped  abruptly.  What 
tragedy  of  love  turned  to  hate  was  this  !  In  the 
dark  scowl  of  the  man  I  interpreted  an  insatiable 
fury.  Yet  I  shuddered  less  at  this  speechless 
anger  than  at  the  lacerating  contempt  of  her 
unwavering  stare. 

I  looked  to  see  the  man  spring  at  her,  to  do 
her  some  violence.  But,  leaning  against  the 
fireplace,  he  stood  watching  her  intently.  On 
her  face  was  such  a  shadow  of  tempest  as  made 
me  sick  with  a  new  and  poignant  terror. 

I  saw  his  lips  move ;  the  scowl  on  his  face 
deepened.  He  drew  himself  erect,  and  as  he 
did  so  I  thought  I  heard  him  utter  a  name 
mockingly. 

She  did  not  answer,  did  not  move.  Outside  I 
heard  the  wind  rise  and  fall,  monotonously  cry- 
ing in  a  thin  shrewd  wail.  The  patter  of  the 
rain  had  ceased,  but  so  intense  was  the  stillness 
that  the  drip,  drip,  from  the  soaked  leaves  upon 
the  sodden  ground  was  painfully  audible. 

Then  so  swiftly  that  I  scarce  saw  her  move, 
she  sprang  forward.  There  was  a  flash,  a  hoarse 
cry,  and  the  man  staggered  back,  with  the  blood 


The  Graven  Image.  231 

-^ 

from  a  knife-thrust  spurting  from  his  left 
shouldfer. 

She  stood  motionless.  He,  staring  at  her, 
panted  hard  as  he  slowly  stanched  the  blood. 

Suddenly  she  began  to  scream.  I  thought 
my  blood  would  freeze  with  horror  at  the 
awful  sound ;  scream  after  scream  of  deadly 
terror,  and  yet  neither  she  nor  the  man 
moved. 

But,  looking  at  him,  I  saw  that  murder 
flamed  in  his  eyes.  Before  I  could  spring  from 
the  bed  to  interfere,  he  leaped  upon  her  like  a 
beast  of  prey.  In  a  moment  both  were  on  the 
floor,  and  I  could  see  that  he  was  strangling  her 
to  the  death. 

With  a  savage  exclamation  I  dashed  to  the 
spot,  but  tripped,  and  the  next  moment  lay  un- 
conscious, for  my  forehead  fell  against  a  comer 
of  the  oaken  bookcase. 

When  I  woke,  or  came  out  of  my  stupor,  I 
was  still  on  the  floor  where  I  had  fallen,  though 
the  sunlight  streamed  in  at  the  window.  There 
was  no  sign  of  the  horrible  tragedy  that  had 
been  enacted  before  me.  With  a  shudder  I 
looked  at  the  "  Graven  Image,"  and  recognised, 


232  The  Graven  Image. 

with  a  new  and  horrible  distinctness,  the  appall- 
ing verisimilitude  of  the  waxen  face. 

It  was  impossible  to  remain  in  the  room.  I 
dressed  hurriedly,  and  made  my  way  downstairs. 
The  front  door  was  open,  and  I  passed  into  the 
garden.  The  fresh  air,  damp  as  it  was,  was 
cool  and  soothing  to  my  throbbing  nerves,  and, 
before  long,  I  had  almost  persuaded  myself  that 
I  had  been  victim  to  nightmare. 

Suddenly  I  caught  sight  of  Mr.  Tregarthen. 
He  was  sitting  in  his  sanctum,  and  beckoned  to 
me.  From  the  appearance  of  the  room,  and, 
indeed,  of  himself,  I  guessed  that  he  had  been 
there  all  night. 

"  Well  ? "  he  said,  quietly  :  his  sole  greeting. 

I  thought  it  best  to  be  frank. 

"  I  have  had  a  bad  night,"  I  began. 

"  I  know  it.     I  heard  you  cry  out." 

I  looked  at  him  amazedly  and  in  some  fear. 
Abruptly,  I  demanded,  in  an  imperative  tone : 

"  Who  was  the  original  of  the  '  Graven 
Image  '?  " 

"  Catherine  Tregaskis,  my  betrothed  wife." 

I  was  silent,  intensely  surprised  as  I  was, 

Mr.  Tregarthen  leaned  forward  and  handed 
to  me  a  vignette  portrait. 


The  Graven  Image.  233 

It  was  that  of  a  handsome,  dark-haired,  dark- 
eyedf  black-bearded  man.  I  recognised  the  face 
at  once,  with  a  thrill  of  horrified  remembrance. 

"  Who  —  who  —  is  this   man,    Mr.    Tregar- 

then?" 

"  My  dead  brother,  Richard." 

I  write  this  a  year  after  my  visit  to  "  The 
Mulberries,"  which  I  left  that  morning.  Mr. 
Tregarthen  is  dead.  "  The  Mulberries,"  under 
another  name,  is  still  untenanted ;  but  I  should 
be  poor  and  forlorn  indeed  before  I  accepted 
again  the  shelter  of  that  roof. 


THE   LADY   IN   HOSEA. 


The  Lady  in  Hosea. 


"  And  she  shall  follow  after  her  lover,  but  she  shall  not 
overtake  him ;  and  she  shall  seek  him,  but  shall  not  find 
him  ;  then  shall  she  say,  I  will  go  and  return  to  my  first 
husband;  for  then  was  it  better  with  me  than  now  1  — " 
Hosea. 

When  John  Dorian,  with  the  help  of  the  poker 
and  the  flaming  coals,  had  demolished  Dream 
No.  LI  1 1,  and  last,  he  lit  a  cigar.  Then  he  lay 
back  in  a  deep,  padded  armchair,  in  order  to 
enjoy  to  the  full  his  evening  paper. 

The  effort  had  been  exhausting.  He  was  a 
sentimentalist,  and  had  been  wont  to  mark  his 
love-letters,  after  they  had  reached  the  tenth, 
as  "Dream  I.,"  "Dream  II.,"  and  so  on. 
True,  he  had  not  gone  through  the  whole  fifty- 


238  The  Lady  in  Hosea. 

three  that  night.  The  little  india-rubber  bands 
which  had  been  round  Claire's  letters  lay  beside 
the  ash-tray  on  the  mantelpiece,  like  an  angler's 
heap  of  worms,  discarded  because  of  their  pre- 
mature death  ;  but  the  pile  could  not  have  con- 
sisted of  more  than  about  a  score  and  a  half. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Dreams  XV.  to  XXI.  had 
escaped  the  ruthless  poker.  Covered  with 
kisses,  warmed  with  sighs,  they  had  been  cre- 
mated in  the  late  days  of  June.  They  were 
—  I  should  say  had  been  —  animated  by  aspi- 
rations of  soul-union,  assurances  concerning 
Immortality,  and  perfectly  lucid  and  frank  ex- 
positions of  a  vivid  passion.  In  a  word,  they 
were  so  explicit  that  John  Dorian  had  found 
himself  forced  to  submit  them  to  a  double  com- 
mittal :  first,  to  his  heart  (as  he  designated  his 
memory),  and  then  to  the  fire.  Again,  Dreams 
XLV.  to  LI.  had,  though  autumnal,  endured  a 
like  fate.  True,  they  were  without  any  remarks 
about  Immortality ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  union 
of  mind,  soul,  and  body,  particularly  the  third 
partner  in  the  trinity,  was  emphasised  in  them 
with  ardour,  eloquence,  and  a  pleading  yearning. 
By  an  accident,  five  missives  from  another 
lady  had  been  tied  up  with  those  from  Claire. 


The  Lady  in  Hosea.  239 

These  had  been  discovered  one  Sunday,  when, 
unwelK  with  a  chill,  and  brooding  upon  the 
immortality  of  a  great  passion,  Dorian  had  per- 
mitted himself  the  dangerous  luxury  of  a  re- 
perusal  of  his  love-letters.  Only  skilled  chefs 
should  attempt  pleasant  surprises  in  the  way  of 
richauffis. 

In  the  peaceful  quiet  of  that  Sabbath  after- 
noon thirteen  epistles  had  been  done  to  death  : 
seven,  too  passionate,  from  Claire ;  five,  too 
financially  exigent,  from  Mademoiselle  Phal^ne. 

Thus  it  was  that  on  this  October  night  John 
Dorian,  on  demolishing  the  discarded  raiment 
of  his  Dreams,  confided  to  the  appreciative 
secrecy  of  his  fire  no  more  than  four-and-thirty 
burning  missives.  The  epithet  is  hyperbolical ; 
but  there  is  no  doubt  about  its  actuality  in  the 
past  participle. 

A  few  weeks  ago  "  Dream  LI  1 1."  would  have 
meant  to  him  no  more  than  the  fifty-third  kiss 
he  had  received  from  Claire.  It  would  have 
been  simply  a  delightful  link  between  Fifty-two 
and  Fifty-four.  But  when  LI  1 1,  is  endorsed 
"  and  last,"  the  number  stands  forth  from  its 
fellow-figures,  the  elect  of  Fate. 

An  effort?     Yes;  it  had  been  an  effort  to 


240  The  Lady  in  Hosea. 

read  through,  latterly  to  glance  at,  those  thirty- 
four  remnants  of  an  undying  passion. 

Dorian  had  two  small  ivory  figures  by  the 
sculptor  Dampt.  They  ornamented  his  twin 
bookcases  by  the  fire-side  ;  above  the  shelves  to 
the  right,  "  Aspiration,"  with  upraised  arms  and 
trance-wrought  face ;  above  the  shelves  to  the 
left,  "  Consummation,''  supine,  satisfied,  with 
wearied  eyes. 

He  looked  at  the  little  group  to  the  left,  while 
Dream  LI  1 1,  emitted  the  unpleasant  odour  of 
waste  paper  aflame.  He  smiled  unwittingly ; 
then,  wittingly,  sighed.  Then  he  lit  his  cigar, 
seated  himself,  and  leisurely  unfolded  the  news- 
sheet. 

The  "  leader  "  interested  him.  Halfway  down 
the  column  on  the  ensuing  page,  "  The  Casket 
of  Pandora,"  he  read :  "  The  Lover  is  ever  a 
sophisticator." 

"True,"  he  muttered  indolently,  while  he 
stretched  his  feet  nearer  the  fire-glow ;  "  how 
true !  one  sophisticates  oneself  with  dreams  of 
impossible  virtues  and  charms." 

"  Sophisticator  !  "  he  resumed.  "  Let  me  see 
what  the  dictionary  has  to  say,  if  there  is  such 
a  word." 


TJ>e  Lady  in  Hosea.  241 

With_^  slight  effort,  he  obtained  the  volume 
he  sought  from  the  swing-bookcase  near  his 
chair. 

"  Ah !  here  we  are :  sophistical^  sophisticate, 
sjphisticator.  H'm.  .  .  .  ^ Sophisticator:'  '■onQ 
who  adulterates,  debases,  or  injures  the  purity 
of  anything.'  " 

The  dictionary  must  have  become  limp  from 
long  disuse,  for  in  a  few  seconds  it  slipped  to 
the  floor,  and  lay  there,  unheeded,  in  a  dead 
faint. 

A  hunted  look  had  come  into  John  Dorian's 
eyes,  but  it  passed.  For  some  time  he  stared 
blankly  into  the  fire.  Then,  suddenly,  he  re- 
sumed his  perusal  of  the  "  Quadrant  Gazette." 

With  a  yawn,  he  skipped  the  "  Casket  of 
Pandora"  column.  "These  paragraphists,"  he 
muttered,  "  either  talk  rubbish,  or  bore  one  with 
their  rehashed  hash." 

There  was  wind  without.  It  came  down  the 
street,  at  times,  blowing  a  loud  clarion  :  a  minute 
later  it  would  swirl  away  again,  with  a  rattling 
fanfaronade  among  the  chimney-tops.  Now 
and  again  a  flurry  of  rain  slapped  the  window- 
panes. 

It    was    certainly   comfortable    by    the    fire. 
16 


242  The  Lady  in  Hosea. 

Possibly  it  was  sheer  tampering  with  luxury 
that  made  Dorian  rise  and  wander  restlessly 
about  the  room. 

The  rumble  of  the  Piccadilly  omnibuses  out- 
side emphasised  the  cheerful  quietude  of  the 
room. 

Its  solitary  occupant  wavered  between  a  cabi- 
net in  one  corner  filled  with  blue  china,  and, 
in  another  corner,  an  escritoire.  This  lured 
him.  He  seated  himself  in  front  of  it,  opened  a 
drawer,  and,  taking  out  and  unfolding  a  diary, 
glanced  at  page  after  page.  An  entry  in  Au- 
gust arrested  his  attention. 

"  August  21.  —  Still  here  at  Llandynys.  Did  not  leave 
on  Monday,  as  Cecil  T.  was  summoned  to  Chester  on  some 
magisterial  matter.  He  expected  to  be  back  that  night, 
but  wired  that  he  would  be  detained  two  or  three  days,  and 
hoped  I  would  prolong  my  stay.  I  did.  Claire  brought 
me  the  message.  Her  eyes  were  lovely.  She  knew  I 
would  stop.  What  days  these  have  been !  Never,  never 
shall  I  forget  them  !  What  a  deep  joy  it  is  that  she  and  I 
are  so  absolutely  one  with  the  other!  To  think  of  it;  she 
Claire;  I,  John  Dorian,  at  one  forever  and  ever  I  There 
can  be  no  end  to  a  passion  such  as  ours.  It  is  the  nobler, 
the  stronger,  because  of  our  great  renunciation.  Neither 
she  nor  I  will  leave  Cecil  Trevor  a  mourner.  Indeed,  it 
would  be  cruel  if,  having  by  undreamed-of  hazard  taken 


The  Lady  in  Hosea.  243 

royal  possession  of  his  wife's  heart,  I  should  also  break  up 
his  home  -^y  removing  her  to  another  clime  as  my  wife. 
No,  we  will  be  strong.  Love  has  been  compassionate,  and 
given  each  unto  each.  What  need  to  go  to  the  last  extrem- 
ity —  a  bitter  one  at  the  best.  No  ;  there  will  be  no  elope- 
„ment.  But  I  am  hers  and  she  is  mine,  in  life  and  death. 
Ah,  Death .'  No !  no  !  no  death  for  us !  For  all  eternity 
our  love  shall  endure.  She  and  I,  I  and  she,  together  for- 
ever and  ever." 

Dorian  closed  the  diary  with  a  snap.  Rising, 
he  replaced  the  book,  and  then  walked  slowly 
to  the  window.  He  drew  back  the  blind.  The 
cloud-rack  was  broken  for  an  interval ;  over- 
head, like  dark,  frozen  water  between  ice-banks, 
he  could  see  a  width  of  sky.  A  planet,  a  score 
or  more  of  stars,  glistered  icily. 

"  For  all  eternity,"  he  muttered ;  "  I  and  she, 
she  and  I,  forever  and  ever."  For  a  few  min- 
utes he  was  silent,  motionless,  profoundly  intent. 
Then  he  smiled. 

"  Ah,  I  was  always  a  star-gazer !  " 

With  that  he  went  back  to  his  chair  in  front  of 
the  fire,  took  up  a  new  magazine  in  lieu  of  the 
newspaper,  and  made  ready  to  enjoy  himself. 

Doubtless  he  would  have  succeeded,  but  fate 
willed  otherwise.  The  tap  of  a  postman  was 
the  particular  disguise  taken  by  Nemesis. 


244  The  Lady  in  Hosea. 

"  A  letter  for  you,  sir,"  said  his  man,  holding 
out  a  salver  on  which  was  a  business-looking 
envelope. 

"  H'm.  Just  wait  a  moment,  George.  Ah  ! 
—  ah !  it 's  from  Anderson  &  Anderson.  .  .  . 
George,  are  you  there  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  George,  if  a  lady  should  call  for  me  to-night 
or  to-morrow,  you  are  to  tell  her  I  am  not  here. 
Say  —  oh  !  let  me  see  — say  that  she  is  just  too 
late ;  that  I  left  this  morning  for  Paris,  en 
route  for  the  East.  Tell  her  I  won't  be  back 
again  for  years." 

"  If  she  wants  me  to  take  or  send  you  any 
message  ?  " 

"In  that  case  tell  her  that  you  will  certainly 
do  so;  only,  add  that  it  had  better  not  be 
urgent,  as  you  don't  expect  to  join  me  in  the 
East  till  after  I  telegraph  to  you  from  —  let 
us  say  Egypt." 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

The  man  hesitated,  fidgeted,  but  thought 
better  of  his  intent,  whatever  it  was.  As  soon 
as  he  had  gone  Dorian  eagerly  scanned  the 
note  he  had  received.  It  was  from  a  firm 
of  solicitors,  and  was  to  the  effect  that  it  was 


The  Lady  in  Hosea.  245 

true  Mrs.  Cecil  Trevor  had  left  her  home,  that 
she  had'^called  to  ask  his,  John  Dorian's,  ad- 
dress, and  that  to-morrow  if  not  to-day,  or  the 
day  after  if  not  to-morrow,  she  would  certainly 
obtain  it  from  someone. 

It  is  a  common  mistake  to  say  that  Nemesis 
never  blunders.  That  policeman  of  the  gods 
can,  and  does,  sometimes  appear  on  the  scene 
too  soon,  or  too  late,  or  otherwise  inoppor- 
tunely. He  came  down  Piccadilly  a  second 
time  this  evening,  disguised  this  time  as  Claire 
Trevor. 

Dorian  was  halfway  through  his  second  cigar 
when  he  heard  a  hansom  stop  beneath  his 
windows.  This  was  followed  by  a  tap  at  the 
front-door.  To  the  tap  succeeded  the  opening 
of  the  door  ;  then  a  sustained  conversation. 

"  I  am  no  coward,"  said  John  Dorian,  "but  I 
will  retire  —  ah  !  —  to  the  bath-room  ! " 


246  The  Lady  in  Hosea. 


II. 


Mrs.  Trevor,  as  she  sat  before  the  fire  in 
her  room  in  the  Whitehall  Hotel,  did  not  know 
whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  This  was  not  because 
she  was  either  amused  or  chagrined,  but  be- 
cause she  believed  her  heart  was  broken. 
There  are  women,  as  there  are  men,  who,  front- 
ing irredeemable  disaster,  with  a  heart  almost 
callous  on  account  of  its  pain,  scarce  know 
whether  laughter  or  sobs  shall  best  ease  them. 

Claire  Trevor  had  taken  the  step  which 
experience  tells  should  never  be  taken  :  that  is, 
she  had  burnt  the  ship  of  her  married  life. 
All  manner  of  misadventure  may  be  wrought 
against  that  vessel,  but  it  should  never  be 
burnt;  at  least  not  until  another  has  been 
boarded  by  invitation,  and  a  license  as  first 
mate  duly  obtained.  In  other  words,  she  had 
not  only  left  her  home  and  husband,  but  had 
also  been  rash  enough  to  leave  a  letter  behind 
her  for  Cecil  Trevor.  It  told  him  that  she 
loved,  and  was  loved  by,  John  Dorian ;  that 
she  could  not  live  without  the  said  John,  and 


The  Lady  in  Hosea.  247 

that  it  would  be  criminal  on  her  part  to  remain 
a  day  Wnger  with  him,  Cecil,  as  his  wife.  Lest 
there  should  be  any  mistake,  she  had  added  a 
few  particulars. 

She  had  no  children.  She  did  not  love  Cecil 
Trevor  :  but  she  had  not  suspected  this  until  — 
well !  The  suspicion  developed  into  a  fact 
when,  after  a  few  months'  acquaintanceship, 
John  Dorian  read  her  his  two-act  play,  "  For 
Better,  for  Worse."  At  the  moving  sentimen- 
tality which  did  duty  as  a  dramatic  close,  he 
had  informed  her  that  she  was  the  heroine, 
Helen,  and  he  Paris,  the  hero. 

In  the  process  she  lost  a  few  ideals.  These 
are  seldom  missed  at  first,  and  it  was  some  time 
before  she  realised  that  they  were  gone.  She 
sighed,  with  true  feeling,  but  said  to  herself  that 
she  would  be  brave. 

One  ideal,  however,  she  did  hold,  not  only 
dear  and  intimate,  but  inviolate.  This  was  the 
':hivalrous  love,  the  unalterable  devotion,  of  John 
Dorian. 

It  had  not  been  without  difficulty  that  she 
obtained  his  new  address.  Circumstances  had 
kept  them  apart  for  three  months,  and  in  that 
time  he  had  shifted  his  quarters  more  than  once. 


248  The  Lady  in   Hosea. 

For  a  woman  without  much  intuition,  it  is  to 
her  credit  that  she  was  not  only  undeceived  by 
the  instructed  lie  of  Dorian's  valet,  but  at  once 
guessed  that  her  lover  wished  "  Finis "  to  be 
written  to  their  romance.  She  had  little  imagi- 
nation, and  she  did  not  understand  how  this 
finality  could  be  ;  but  she  felt  it  in  the  very  core 
of  her  heart.  The  tragi-comedy  had  fizzled  out 
while,  having  left  without  an  attempt  to  expos- 
tulate with,  or  even  to  force  an  interview  upon, 
her  lover,  she  drove  back  to  her  hotel. 

For  a  long  time  she  had  stared  into  the  fire, 
till  her  eyes  ached.  At  last  she  rose,  and  took 
two  photographs  from  her  leather-covered  desk. 
The  insolent  light  of  the  gas  flamed  upon  her. 
By  a  vague  instinct  she  turned  it  lower,  and  also 
avoided  a  glimpse  of  herself  in  the  adjacent 
mirror. 

There  was  ample  light  to  see  the  photographs 
by.  One  was  of  a  man  about  five-and-thirty, 
tall,  elegant,  graceful  even,  evidently  dark,  with 
oval  dusky  eyes,  short  hair  with  a  wave  in  it  at 
the  sides,  clean  contours,  a  sensitive  nose  and 
mouth,  a  self-conscious  smile  on  the  face,  the 
hands  artistic,  but  with  the  thumbs  noticeably 
lifted  backward.     A  good-looking  man  of  the 


The  Lady  in  Hosea.  249 

world,  in  most  judgments,  no  doubt.  To  a  close 
and  feeen  observer  everj-thing,  from  the  thumbs 
to  the  pointed  ears,  betokened  the  refined  and 
cultured  animal  which  had  the  arrogance  to 
believe  it  was  kin  to  Apollo,  and  the  blindness 
not  to  see  that  it  was  of  the  brotherhood  of  Pan 
the  Satyr.  All  the  possibilities  of  the  epileptic 
slept  in  that  comely  exterior.  The  life  in  him 
was  a  phosphorescent  fungus  in  a  grave. 

Mrs.  Trevor  took  the  ordinary  view.  The 
photograph  pained  her  by  its  tantalising  truth. 
Long  and  earnestly  as  she  looked  at  it,  she 
stared  longer  and  more  intently  at  the  other. 
It  represented  a  young  woman  who  could  not 
have  passed  her  twenty-seventh  year;  blonde, 
with  a  graceful  figure.  That,  really,  was  all  you 
or  I  might  discern  were  we  to  come  upon  the 
likeness  in  an  album.  Claire  Trevor,  however, 
saw  more.  She  evoked  a  woman  whose  tender 
heart  gave  a  lovely  life  to  the  blue  eyes,  an 
exquisite,  unwhispered  whisper  to  the  lips.  She 
saw  the  rippling  fair  hair  moving  in  the  warm 
breath  of  her  lover.  Within,  she  beheld  a  strong 
and  heroic  mind  fronting  the  Shadow  of  Fate 
—  an  undaunted,  unselfish,  greatly  daring  Soul. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  what  she  saw  were  some 


250  The  Lady  in  Hosea. 

raiiibow-shimmerings  from  a  land  where  she  had 
never  fared.  A  great  number  of  other  people's 
thoughts  occupied  almost  every  available  cell  in 
her  brain,  and  the  accommodation  for  her  own 
mind  was  almost  as  limited  as  that  dusty  back- 
parlour  wherein  her  soul  (without  a  capital)  lay 
bedridden  and  blind. 

The  past  tense  should  have  been  more  em- 
phasised. Probably  that  evening  a  few  more 
cells  had  been  opened,  and  others  summarily 
usurped  by  tyrannical  new-comers.  As  for  the 
invalid  in  the  back-parlour,  it  had  doubtless 
risen,  and  was  fumbling  about  in  the  dark. 

When  Mrs.  Trevor  seated  herself  again  she 
took  Dorian's  photograph  and  laid  it  between 
two  coals  which  glowed  vehemently,  despite  the 
corroding  ash  at  their  base.  The  card  crackled, 
shrivelled,  and  became  a  malodorous  nonentity. 
A  minute  or  two  elapsed  before  Claire's  photo- 
graph was  likewise  cremated.  It  fell  sideways, 
and  in  the  spurt  of  redeeming  flame  she  read 
the  date  of  the  night  when  she  had  given  herself 
to  John  Dorian,  —  a  night  which  had  succeeded 
an  evening  of  singular  beauty,  wherein  the  stars 
moved  with  a  polar  magnificence  of  light,  and 
yielded  in  glory  only  to  the  promise  of  eternity 


^The  Lady  in  Hosea.  251 

which  the  uncontrolled  passion  of  two  hearts 
discerned  in  the  frosty  indifference  of  those 
remote  luminaries. 

Even  a  cremated  passion  does  not  add  fuel 
to  a  fire.  Perhaps  the  fire  resents  the  intrusion 
of  a  quenched  flame,  particularly  if  it,  too,  has 
been  slowly  dying.  At  any  rate,  the  photo- 
graphs of  two  aspirants  for  immortality  ended 
in  smoke.  To  expedite  the  burial  Mrs.  Trevor 
stooped,  to  utilise  the  poker.  As  she  reached 
for\vard,  a  locket  swung  from  her  bosom,  struck 
the  mantelpiece,  and  hung  open,  its  two  sides 
outspread,  as  though  it  were  a  metallic  butter- 
fly, the  emblem  of  hope. 

She  relinquished  her  intention,  though  as  a 
matter  of  'fact  the  service  of  the  poker  was  not 
now  needed. 

Instead,  she  sat  back,  and  stared  at  the  minia- 
ture in  the  locket.  It  was  an  excellent  likeness 
of  Cecil  Trevor.  Looking  at  it,  she  could 
see  every  feature  of  her  husband :  his  rather  fur- 
rowed brow,  fairly  well  marked ;  his  heavy  eye- 
brows and  calm  hazel  eyes  ;  his  heavy,  straight 
nose,  with  its  rigid  nostrils;  his  slightly  curly 
brown  beard,  unbroken  from  the  ear-level,  and 
in   the  vogue   of   Henry    VIII.;  his  large,  ill- 


252  The  Lady  in  Hosea. 

formed,  but  kindly  mouth ;  his  coarse  jowl  and 
dogged  chin.  She  knew  that  he  was  taller  than 
the  broad  squire  suggested  in  the  miniature,  and 
also  that  his  voice  was  softer  than  a  stranger 
would  infer.  And  as  she  looked  she  believed 
she  saw  something  in  the  eyes  she  had  never 
seen  before. 

With  a  cry  she  rose,  then  sank  to  her  knees, 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  while  her  hair 
swept  the  chair  like  a  creeper  over  a  ruin. 

The  fire  had  almost  subsided  into  ash  when 
she  rose  and  slowly  began  to  undress.  She 
pondered  the  advisability  of  a  prayer,  but,  on 
second  thoughts,  decided  not  to  intrude  herself 
just  then  on  an  offended  and  probably  resent- 
ful Providence.  There  would  be  ample  time 
on  the  morrow,  when  she  would  feel  more 
purged  of  her  sin. 

"  I  will  go  back,"  she  whispered  to  herself. 
She  lay  down  in  the  vague  discomfort  of  a  new 
loneliness.  "  I  will  go  back.  Perhaps  he  will 
forgive ;  perhaps  he  will  let  me  atone ;  perhaps 
he  loves  me  still." 

The  invalid  inmate  of  the  back-parlor  mur- 
mured indistinctly,  "  Oh,  what  a  fool,  what  a 
fool  you  have  been  !  " 


The  Lady  in  Hosea.  253 


III. 


When  Claire  Trevor  reached  the  station  for 
Llandynys,  it  was  to  learn  that  she  was  a 
widow. 

During  the  long  drive  she  wept  sincerely  for 
her  resurrected  affection,  now  so  untimely 
slain. 

Did  Cecil  now  know  all  ?  Do  the  dead  see, 
understand  ?  The  thought  troubled  her ;  but 
she  did  not  disguise  from  herself  that  she  was 
more  anxiorus  as  to  how  much  he  knew  when 
he  was  alive. 

"  Death,  the  result  of  an  accident  in  the 
hunting-field."  That  was  what  she  had  been 
told.  The  accident  had  occurred  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  morning  when  she  had  taken  her 
fatal  step.  There  was  just  a  chance  Mr. 
Trevor  had  not  seen  the  insensate  letter  she 
had  written. 

That  drive  aged  Mrs.  Trevor.  She  felt  as 
though  she  were  driving  away  from  her  youth. 


254  The  Lady  in  Hosea. 

At  the  threshold  of  her  home  —  if  it  still  was 
her  home  —  she  was  met  by  the  Vicar.  His 
manner  was  deeply  sympathetic  and  consider- 
ate, —  so  considerate  that  she  inferred  safety 
so  far.  The  Vicar's  profound  respect  indicated 
her  acceptance  in  his  eyes  as  the  heiress  of 
Llandynys. 

Claire  Trevor  never  quite  forgave  herself, 
because  when  she  looked  upon  the  corpse  of 
her  husband,  she  saw  only,  thought  of  only, 
dreaded  only,  the  letter  he  held  in  his  folded 
hands. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  she  whispered  hoarse- 
ly to  Mr.  Barnby. 

"  Your  last  letter,"  the  Vicar  replied  with 
tender  unction.  "  It  was  brought  to  him  before 
the  end  by  the  servant,  who  had  forgotten  to 
deliver  it  before  his  master  went  out  riding- 
He  was  too  weak  to  open  it.  He  kissed 
it  just  before  he  died.  When  he  pressed 
it  against  his  heart,  the  heart  had  already 
stopped.  Take  it,  my  dear  madam,  take  it ; 
it  will  be  a  lovely  memento  for  you  for  the 
rest  of  your  life." 


FROKEN   BERGLIOT. 


Froken   Bergliot. 


Ix  the  summer  heats  few  foreigners  are  to 
be  seen  at  Castel  Gandolfo.  Half-a-dozen 
Roman  famihes  may  be  settled  in  villas  round 
the  hill-set  Lake  of  Albano  ;  and  a  stray  artist, 
a  Spaniard  or  Southern  Frenchman  most 
likely,  may  lodge  for  a  few  days  in  the  little 
town.  In  August,  however,  most  people  who 
c"n  afford  to  leave  Rome  at  all  go  to  the  sea 
or  to  the  mountains.  For,  though  Castel  Gan- 
dolfo is  as  high  and  breezy  a  place  as  any  in 
the  Alban  hills  except  Rocca  di  Papa  and 
perhaps  Nemi,  the  heat  there  can  be  oppres- 
sive, and  the  dreaded  malaria  sometimes  steals 
up  from  the  Campagna,  though  not  till  after  it 
has  visited  Genzano  and  TAriccia  and  even 
Albano  itself. 

Nemi  is  lovelier,  but   there  is  no  more  pic- 
turesque spot  in  the  Alban  range  than  Castel 

17 


258  Froken  Bergliot. 

Gandolfo,  that  ancient  summer-home  of  so 
many  Popes,  and  beloved  of  Romans  since  the 
days  of  the  Cassars.  On  its  lofty  crest,  amid 
its  pines  and  ilexes  and  cypresses,  it  looks 
down  on  the  one  side  upon  the  beautiful  Lake 
of  Albano,  a  vast  amethyst  as  it  seems  in 
summertide,  and  upon  the  steep  volcanic  slopes 
of  Alba  reaching  upward  in  a  splendid  semi- 
circle. From  the  other,  it  looks  across  the  Cam- 
pagna,  upon  desolate  leagues  of  pale  blue  in  the 
morning,  upon  a  shimmering  haze  of  mist  at 
noon,  and  again  upon  leagues  upon  leagues  of 
purple  at  wane  of  day.  Behind  the  high-set 
village  run  the  two  lovely  ilex-avenues  to  Al- 
bano; beyond  it,  or  rather  beyond  the  Papal 
palace  and  gardens  that  give  the  little  town  its 
name,  goes  straight  as  an  arrow  for  a  while  the 
high  road  to  Rome. 

It  is  a  place  wherein  to  eat  the  lotos,  to 
dream  dreams.  In  the  morning,  when  the  sky 
is  of  a  lustrous  blue  and  when  the  hill-air  blows 
freshly  down  the  slopes  from  Rocca  di  Papa, 
one  can  rest  for  hours  looking  upon  the  ruffled 
lake,  watching  the  fish  leap,  listening  to  the 
wind  among  the  ilexes  or  the  chestnuts.  In 
the  late  afternoon  the  watcher  upon  the  lower 


Froken   Bergliot.  259 

western  wall  will  see  the  most  impressive  sight 
in  the'world,  —  the  sun  passing  in  a  purple  veil 
of  mystery  athwart  the  desolate  expanse  of 
the  Campagna,  shedding  an  evanescent  flame 
of  light  upon  the  dark  patch  in  the  distance 
that  is  Rome,  and  illumining  as  with  green  or 
crimson  fire  the  remote  marge  of  the  Tyrrhe- 
nian Sea. 

Three  years  ago  the  mid-Italian  summer 
was  exceptionally  hot.  Drought  prevailed, 
and  on  many  of  the  upland  pastures  the 
grass  was  in  colour  like  newly-tanned  leather. 
On  the  Campagna  cattle  sickened,  and  human 
beings  died  or  crawled  to  and  fro  stricken 
with  the  ague  of  malaria.  The  hill-towns  of 
the  Alban  ind  Volscian  mountains  were  full 
of  ragged,  wild-eyed  shepherd-folk ;  even  of 
sea-dwellers  from  the  pestilential  shores  of 
Etruria  Maritima,  the  desolate  tract  from  the 
base  of  the  mountains  of  Volterra  to  the 
Pontine  Marshes  near  the  frontier  of  the  old 
kingdom  of  Naples. 

All  through  those  torrid  weeks  of  July  and 
August,  Bergliot  Rossi  was  as  one  in  a  restless 
trance.  It  was  the  third  year  since  this  girl 
out   of   the    north    had   come  to   live  with   her 


26o  Froken  Bergliot. 

uncle,  Ernesto  Rossi,  the  antiquary.  She  now 
hated  this  glaring,  burning  south  that  had  ap- 
pealed to  her  so  much  at  first;  hated  this 
stifling  heat,  this  inland  weariness,  this  malaria 
that  everywhere  brooded  as  an  invisible  beast 
of  prey;  hated  even  the  Alban  hill-folk,  with 
their  hard  voices,  their  inhospitable  ways, 
their  witless  turning  of  the  dear  Scandinavian 
*'  Bergliot  Ross "  into  "  Bergliota  Rossi,"  as 
of  her  aunt's  name  "  Hedwig"  into  "  Eviga." 

How  gladly,  she  often  murmured  —  and 
thought  ever  —  would  she  have  stayed  in  her 
beloved  Norway  when  her  father.  Captain 
Henrik  Ross,  went  to  join  the  wife  whom  he 
had  lost  twenty  years  before.  She  would 
have  known  poverty,  and  perhaps,  at  first, 
chagrin,  —  for  Henrik  Ross  had  lived  well, 
and  with  even  better  pretensions  than  his 
means  warranted ;  but  she  would  have  been 
among  her  own  nation,  with  the  sweet  Norsk 
voice  and  tongue  to  charm  her  ears,  and 
within  sight  of  the  mountains,  within  sight  of 
the  sea.  To  be  away  from  Norway  seemed 
to  her  a  fate  to  sympathise  with ;  to  be  away 
in  the  far  south,  with  a  northern  soul,  and 
to   see  no  more  the   dark   mountains   and   the 


Froken  Bergliot.  261 

wild,  beautiful,  changeful    Scandinavian    seas, 
was  t(fhe  indeed  worthy  of  sorrowful  pity. 

Still,  Uncle  Ernest  and  Aunt  Hedwig  had 
been  kind,  and  to  be  in  that  lovely  hill- 
village,  and  so  near  the  mysterious  city  in 
whose  name  is  the  supreme  metropolitan 
sound,  was  a  subdued  joy.  But  long  before 
Aunt  Hedwig's  deaths  at  the  end  of  the  second 
year  of  Bergliot's  exile,  the  girl  had  wearied 
of  the  south,  and  was  consumed  by  an  abiding 
passion  for  the  lost  north.  This  passion 
haunted  her  dreams  by  night,  and  lent  to 
her  diurnal  visions  what  was  akin  to  anguish. 
The  winter  she  could  endure,  particularly  if 
the  ice  lay  on  the  pools  and  rivulets,  and 
when  the  snow  .covered  the  woodland  ways 
all  over  the  hill-tract  from  Frascati  to  Velletri. 
The  spring  was  so  beautiful  that,  though  she 
longed  for  the  leagues  of  gorse  and  the 
green  fiords  of  "home,"  she  could  not  but 
rejoice  in  the  exceeding  loveliness.  Froken 
Bergliot,  as  she  wished  always  to  be  called, 
became  a  well-known  wanderer  among  the 
towns  and  villages.  In  I'Ariccia  and  Genzano 
the  women  thought  the  Norse  signorina  a  little 
"  touched " ;   for  the  rest,  they  despised  what 


262  Froken  Berg-liot. 


o* 


they  could  not  understand.  Latterly,  she 
avoided  these  places,  preferring  to  wander 
through  the  upland  coppices  to  Nemi;  or  to 
climb  to  high  Rocca  di  Papa,  where  the 
children  are  seized  sometimes  by  vertigo  and 
are  killed  before  their  mothers  can  snatch 
them  from  the  sheer  slopes ;  or  even  to 
make  her  way  through  the  woodlands  above 
Frascati  to  the  old  ruins  of  Tusculum.  But 
best  she  loved  to  linger  in  the  ilex-avenue 
overlooking  the  Campagna,  when  afternoon 
merged  into  twilight,  and  no  sound  broke 
the  stillness  save  distant  bells  summoning  to 
Ave  Maria,  and,  above  in  Castel  Gandolfo, 
the  cries  and  laughter  of  children  ;  or,  througii 
the  hot  noontide,  to  lie  on  the  steep  incline 
to  the  south  of  the  old  Papal  palace,  and 
look  down  upon  the  lake,  and  dream  of 
green  fiords  and  precipitous  rocks,  yellow- 
gray  with  sea-moss  and  lichen,  furrowed  by 
ocean  rains  and  the  salt  sea-wind.  When 
the  summer  heats  set  in,  however,  her  nos- 
talgia for  the  beloved  north  became  an  abid- 
ing pain.  She  panted  in  the  hot  breath  of 
air  and  earth  as  might  a  caged  swift  in  a 
room.     She   felt   as  though   she   would   die   if 


^  Froken  Bergliot.  263 

she  wpre  to  stay  much  longer  in  this  foreign 
land,  among  this  alien  folk.  An  immense 
loneliness  possessed  her.  It  was  as  though 
she  were  a  castaway.  Her  Uncle  Ernest 
was  a  taciturn  man,  much  absorbed  in  his 
vocation  and  its  connected  studies,  and  was, 
moreover,  often  away  for  days  at  a  time,  in 
Rome,  or  Florence,  or  Naples,  or  even  farther 
afield.  In  these  solitary  hours  she  would  go 
wearily  to  and  fro,  conscious  of  little  save 
her  overmastering  desire  to  see  the  north 
once  more ;  to  feel  its  cool  breath  in  her 
mind  and  in  her  spirit  as  well  as  upon 
her  body ;  to  hear  the  lap-lapping  of  the 
waves;  to  watch  the  white  sea-horses  leap  in 
the  sunlight  when,  at  the  fiord-mouth,  a 
mountain-wind  tore  against  the  tide-race. 
If,  in  these  moments  of  intense  longing,  she 
descried,  trailed  across  the  sky  like  a  thin 
Japanese  eyebrow,  a  flight  of  northward-wing- 
ing birds,  she  would  turn  away  sobbing  in 
her  bitter  pain,  or  throw  herself  upon  the 
ground  and  seek  relief  in  tears. 

But,  alas  !  she  had  not  a  soldo  of  her  own  in 
the  world.  Uncle  Ernest  gave  her  nothing. 
She  had  a  home ;  she  had  food,  clothes,  even 


264  Froken  Bergliot. 

a  few  luxuries,  or  what  in  that  remote  life 
were  looked  upon  as  luxuries ;  she  had  the 
precious  violin  which  she  had  bought  from 
her  uncle  with  the  small  sum  that  Aunt 
Hedwig  had  given  her  shortly  before  her 
death.  But  to  reach  even  Florence  —  to  gain 
the  Alps  —  how  could  one  do  this  ?  There 
was  but  one  way  :  to  fare  afoot,  to  beg  food 
and  shelter.  This  she  could  not  do,  for  she 
was  bound  in  honor  to  her  uncle.  Some- 
times she  thought  she  would  give  lessons  in 
violin-playing ;  but  unfortunately  she  was 
herself  in  sore  need  of  instruction,  and  none 
of  the  rich  foreigners  who  lived  some  weeks 
or  months  near  Albano  or  Frascati  would 
employ  an  undisciplined  amateur.  Again, 
she  even  dreamed  that  she  might  gain  work 
in  teaching  Italian  to  the  children  of  Scan- 
dinavian visitors ;  but  in  the  first  place  her 
Italian  was  not  good,  and  in  the  next,  and 
conclusively,  no  rich  Scandinavians  ever  did 
come  to  the  Alban  slopes.  Once,  before  the 
Signora  Eviga  was  laid  in  the  little  cemetery 
beyond  the  pinewood,  Bergliot  had  met  the 
Norwegian  consul  in  Rome,  and  he  had 
promised  to  bear   her  wish    in  mind  ;  but  she 


Froken  Bergliot.  265 

had  heard  nought  of  him  since  then,  and 
even  feared,  what  was  indeed  the  case,  that 
her  vincle  had  discouraged  the  idea. 

And  now  in  this  hot  August,  the  third  she 
had  known  in  Italy,  she  realised  that  all  the 
savour  had  gone  out  of  her  life.  She  no 
longer  cared  whether  she  survived  to  fulfil 
her  few  household  duties  to  Uncle  Ernest,  or 
was  laid  beside  Aunt  Hedwig,  the  silent  old 
Norse  lady  who,  while  speaking  in  Italian  to 
her  Roman  nurse,  suddenly  said  in  Norsk,  "  Jeg 
er  troett,"  "  I  am  tired,"  and  was  dead. 

One  morning  after  a  sleepless  night  she  rose 
ere  daybreak.  A  fever  of  unrest  was  upon  her. 
If  only  Uncle  Ernest  had  not  been  ailing  of  late, 
she  could  no'longer  have  w^ithstood  the  tempta- 
tion to  take  her  violin  and  play  her  way  back  to 
the  dear  northland  that  called  her  from  afar. 

She  did  not  know  why  she  struck  along  by 
the  goatherds'  path  that  led  by  the  eastern 
heights  to  the  slopes  between  Frascati  and  Tus- 
culum.  She  had  not  been  at  the  last-named 
since  January,  and  then  the  snow  had  lain  thick 
in  the  hollows,  and  she  had  cried  with  delight 
when  sHpping  often  up  the  steep  frozen  lane 
that  leads  from  Frascati.     Perhaps  some  vague 


266  Froken  Bergliot. 

memory  of  the  coolness  and  whiteness  led  her 
thither. 

It  was  sunrise  as  she  came  to  a  glade  a  short 
distance  below  the  bluff  overhanging  the  ancient 
ruins.  She  stood  for  a  time,  with  her  out- 
stretched left  hand  holding  a  sycamore  branch, 
and  her  whole  figure  wrought  to  an  alert  motion- 
lessness.  A  slight  flush  was  upon  her  beautiful 
face,  paler  than  its  wont,  owing  to  summer- 
languor  and  sleepless  nights  and  the  long  strain 
of  unsatisfied  longing.  In  her  eyes,  gray-blue 
in  general  but  now  almost  violet,  was  a  flame 
of  azure  light.  The  sun-ray  that  was  tangled 
in  the  wave  of  her  brown  hair  twisted  and 
turned  in  gold,  and  passing  and  coming  again 
and  again,  left  an  amber  shimmer  in  the  sweet 
brown  duskiness. 

But  though  her  joy  was  of  the  risen  sun,  of 
the  new  day  that  came  in  radiant  beauty,  —  stir- 
ring afresh  the  Norland  passion  in  her  for  sky 
and  sea  and  the  upland  air  and  mountainous 
aspects,  —  she  was  intent  also  because  of  what 
she  heard.  A  song  filled  the  glade  with  music. 
The  unseen  singer  was  advancing,  and  his 
brave  lilt  leaped  to  her  ear. 

While  she  stood  entranced,  herself  a  vision 


^  Froken  Bergliot.  267 

of  mprning  music  embodied,  she  saw  the 
musician.  He  was  a  young  man,  tall,  robust, 
as  fair  of  skin  and  azure-eyed  as  herself,  with 
close-clustered  hair  tawny  as  sunlit  shallows  in 
a  brook. 

The  song  ceased.  The  young  man  had  seen 
the  girl,  an  unexpected  vision  indeed,  at  that 
hour,  in  that  place,  in  that  country.  She  ap- 
peared to  him  as  something  ideal.  Artist  as  he 
was,  he  had  noted  immediately  and  keenly  the 
loveliness  of  her  colour,  the  perfection  of  her 
form,  the  happy  accident  of  her  pose.  "  Ah  !  I 
have  found  my  point  of  view  now,"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  here  is  my  '  morning  glory  '  picture 
ready  for  me  !  " 

Bergliot  slowly  let  her  arm  fall.  The  flicker 
of  the  sycamore  leaves  sent  dusky  shadows 
across  her  face.  She  hesitated,  and  then  took 
a  step  forward. 

The  stranger  was  coming  towards  her.  Her 
heart-beat  quickened.  This  sweet  singer,  out 
of  the  golden  morning,  was  a  Norlander  too ; 
there  could  be  no  mistake  about  that,  she 
thought  with  gladness.  Was  he  a  Norsk,  a 
Swede,  a  Dane?  Perhaps  a  German  or  an 
Enghshman  ? 


268  Froken  Bergliot. 

But  at  that  moment  she  felt  a  touch  upon  her 
arm.  Looking  round,  she  saw  Anita,  the  httle 
daughter  of  Ermerilda  Lanza,  the  woman  whom 
her  Uncle  Ernest  employed  to  do  the  cooking 
and  rough  work  at  his  house. 

"What  is  it,  Anita?" 

The  child  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in 
amazement.  The  caressing  voice  was  suddenly 
grown  hard,  the  gentle  eyes  were  of  a  cold 
starry  radiance. 

"  I  have  run  .  .  .  run  hard,  signorina,"  she 
panted ;  "  my  mother  sent  me.  The  Signor 
Rossi  is  angry  with  you.  He  is  about  to  go  to 
Venezia,  and  he  wants  to  see  you  before  he 
goes.  He  asked  thrice  for  you  last  evening,  but 
you  were  not  to  be  found,  and  when  he  asked 
again,  late,  you  were  in  bed  and  asleep." 

Bergliot  turned  and  looked  dreamily  back 
upon  the  wooded  slope,  now  aglow  with  sun- 
light. The  young  man  had  stopped,  and  was 
looking  fixedly  towards  her. 

"  Who  is  he  ^  is  he  a  friend  ?  "  Anita  asked, 
with  childish  curiosity. 

"  He  ....  he  is  the  voice  of  the  North," 
replied  the  girl,  as  if  in  a  reverie.  Then, 
turning   again   abruptly,   and   without   anotlisr 


Froken  Bergliot.  269 

look  upon  what  she  was  leaving,  she  set  off 
at  a  fapid  pace,  with  Anita  trotting  behind 
her,  and  was  soon  lost  to  view  among  the 
coppices. 

Old  Marco  Gozzi,  the  charcoal-burner,  on 
his  way  to  Rocca  di  Papa  from  Frascati, 
nodded  to  her  as  she  passed,  and  muttered 
that  it  made  him  young  again  to  see  that 
lovely  image  of  his  Caterina,  a  fair  Venetian 
damsel  who  fifty  years  back  had  withered  of 
the  inland  weariness  and  died,  long  before  her 
vagrant  muleteer  of  a  husband  had  fallen  into 
the  drear  estate  of  a  charcoal-burner. 

He  was  still  looking  after  her,  or  rather  upon 
the  way  by  which  she  had  gone,  when  he  heard 
some  one  approach,  and,  turning,  beheld  the 
stranger.  He  recognised  him  as  the  painter 
who,  three  days  before,  had  given  him  a  five- 
lire  piece  for  sitting  for  his  portrait.  No  doubt 
the  man  was  mad,  Marco  thought;  but  madmen 
with  five-lire  pieces  for  free  disposal  were  per- 
sons to  be  treated  with  respect. 

"  Buon  giorno,  Signer  Pittore  !  " 

"  Ah  !  buon  giorno,  buon  giorno,  Marco  mio ; 
So  we  are  both  up  betimes  !  Well,  it 's  the  only 
way  in  this  hot  weather.     I  say,  Marco,   who 


2/0  Froken  Bergliot. 

was  that  signorina  who  passed  you  a  little 
ago?" 

"  The  signorina  ?  Oh,  well,"  stammered  the 
man,  with  that  strange  evasive  instinct  so  often 
shown  among  Italians  in  remote  places,  "it  is 
of  no  importance.  Eh,  what,  per  Bacco,  yes,  I 
remember;  she  is  called  Anita,  daughter  of 
Ermerilda  Lanza,  of  Castel  Gandolfo." 

"  Not  the  wife  of  that  scoundrel  Michele 
Lanza  ....  that  would   be  —  " 

"  Si,  signore,  sz." 

"  But,  man,  that  lovely  girl  could  not  be  the 
daughter  of  a  coarse  brute  like  Michele  Lanza. 
Why,  he,  and  his  Ermerilda  too,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  are  both  as  dark  as  a  coal-pit,  and  this 
girl  is  like  a  northener." 

"  Ah,  the  signor  pittore  means  the  tall  one  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  silly  idiot,  whom  do  you  think  I 
meant.?  Come,  Marco,  don't  be  a  fool.  See 
here  ;  tell  me  all  you  know,  and  you  shall  have 
a  lira  with  which  to  drink  my  health." 

"  Why,  eccelLmza,  every  one  about  here 
knows  who  she  is.  All  the  young  men  are  in 
love  — and  vainly  in  love  — with  the  Signorina 
Bergliota.  She  is  the  niece  of  the  Signor 
Antiquario   Ernesto   Rossi,   a    reputable    man, 


Froken   Bergliot.  2/1 

though  a  foreigner,  saving  your  worthy  presence, 
signoB'  pittore.  Old  Rossi  lives  in  the  end 
house  at  the  top  of  the  via  in  Castel  Gandolfo 
leading  to  the  lower  Albano  Road.  He  lives 
alone  there,  he  and  his  niece.  The  woman 
Lanza  helps  her." 

"  Bergliota  ....  the  name  is  not  an  Italian 
one.  Why,  of  course,  it 's  Bergliot.  Are  they 
Norsk  ?  " 

"  God  knows.  'T  is  very  likely.  They  are 
Tedeschi ;  that's  all  I  know." 

"  She  lives  alone  with  him,  you  say  ?  " 

"Yes;  worse  luck  for  her." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  of  the  old  man's  temper.  He  has 
a  fiend  of  a  temper,  I  assure  you." 

"Well,  good  day,  Marco.  The  saints  send 
you  luck."  And  with  a  good-humoured  smile 
and  wave  of  his  hand,  Torquil  Barnson  turned 
away.  For  some  reason  he  did  not  wish  to 
accompany  Marco  and  listen  to  his  chit-chat 
about  the  Signorina  Bergliota.  As  he  made 
his  way  up  the  slopes  to  Rocca  di  Papa,  the 
music  of  a  woman's  name  came  and  went  upon 
his  lips  with  ever  fresh  recurrence. 

^^ Froken  Bergliot — Froken  Ber-gliot  —  Froken 


272  Froken  Bergliot. 

Bergliot^''  he  muttered  over  and  over ;  and  often 
a  sudden  smile  of  delight,  as  when  one  comes 
upon  a  new  flower  or  listens  to  the  first  lark- 
song  of  spring,  came  upon  his  face. 

When  he  did  reach  Rocca  di  Papa  he  had 
lost  all  inclination  for  his  work.  The  landscape 
he  had  begun  seemed  sunless,  lifeless.  He 
wanted  to  paint  his  long  projected  "  Morning 
Glory."  Down  in  the  woods  of  the  Papal  villa 
he  heard  the  thrushes  call.  The  sweet  repeti- 
tive note  that  gave  the  welling  lilt  to  their  song 
was  Berglioia  —  Bergliota.  From  the  steep 
crag  just  below  the  village,  where  he  lay  adream 
in  the  sunshine,  he  could  hear  the  wavelets  far 
below  lap-lapping  in  the  sedges,  or  with  slow 
wash  lisping  under  the  overhanging  alders  and 
ashes  that  with  the  twisted  olives  fringed  the 
lake-marge.  And  this  sweet  sound  that  rose 
like  incense  through  the  golden-yellow  air  was 
Froken  Bergliot  —  Broken,  Broken  Bergliot. 

The  afternoon  was  almost  gone  when  the 
young  Norse  painter  roused  himself  from  his 
happy  indolence.  To  his  own  surprise,  perhaps, 
and  certainly  to  that  of  the  few  heat-sleepy 
villagers  who  watched  him,  he  walked  vigorously 
along  the  steep  mule-path  that  led   along  the 


_^  Froken  Bergliot.  273 

old  crater-edge  till  it  joined  the  Marino  Road  to 
Castel  Gandolfo.     For  in    August  no  one  did 
anything  energetically.    Even  the  few  foreigners 
who  lingered  in  the  neighbourhood  employed  the 
afternoon  in  the  luxury  of  the  siesta.     No  one 
but  a  poor  devil  of  a  painter,  said  the  peasants, 
would  be  about  at  that  season.     The  innkeeper 
himself,    at   whose   house   in    Marino    Torquil 
Barnson  lodged,  thought  that  his  good-looking 
visitor  must  be  very  hard    up   that   he   had   to 
rise  at  daybreak  and  go  dabbing  paint  upon  a 
canvas  throughout  the   hot   day.     To   Torquil 
himself,   indeed,   came  more  than  once   a  shy 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  his  sudden  energy 
was   surprising.     Only   the  day  before  he   had 
admitted   to  himself   that   while  winter,  spring, 
and   summer,   in   Rome  and  its  neighbourhood, 
were  delightful,  the  early  autumn  lacked  both 
solace  and  joy  for  a  northerner.     "  Oh,   for  a 
breath  of  the  Blue  Fiord  !  "  he  had  cried  again 
and  again,  filled  with  longing  for  his  sea-swept 
home. 

But  when  he  came  to  the  junction  of  the 
roads  he  did  not  turn  towards  Marino.  He  had 
remembered  that  he  wanted  advice  on  some 
matter  which  only  an  antiquary  could  determine 

18 


2/4  Froken  Bergliot. 

for  him.  This  point  presented  itself  as  in 
urgent  need  of  solution.  There  was  not  a  day 
to  spare,  though  it  had  occurred  to  him  more 
than  a  year  ago.  Besides,  did  he  not  owe 
a  visit  of  courtesy  to  his  fellow-countryman, 
Ernest  Ross  —  the  two  of  them  probably  at 
that  time  the  only  Norsemen  within  reach  of 
the  Alban  hill-wind  ?  Of  course  he  did.  And 
was  not  Herr  Ross  a  man  of  distinction,  to 
whom  it  was  only  civil  to  pay  one's  respects  ? 
Now  that  he  thought  of  it,  had  he  not  heard 
him  spoken  of  in  Bergen  as  one  of  the  most 
remarkable,  —  one  of  the  most  remarkable  — 
oh,  to  be  sure,  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
archaeologists  —  no,  antiquarians  — of  the  day  ? 

Is  it  not  Firdusi  of  Persia  who  says  that 
a  young  man  in  love  is  more  shy  than  a  wild 
roe? 

Visible  shyness  there  was,  indeed,  when  Tor- 
quil  Barnson  knocked  at  the  door  of  Signor 
Rossi's  lodging  in  Castel  Gandolfo. 

There  was  no  response.  If  any  one  within 
heard  his  repeated  summons  it  was  only  to 
treat  it  with  sublime  indifference.  At  last  a 
woman,  leaning  from  a  neighbouring  window, 
suggested  that  it  was  useless  to  wake  all  Castel 


Froken  Bergliot.  275 

Gandolfo,  as  Signer  Ernesto  Rossi  had  gone 
away.  ' 

"  Will  he  be  here  to-morrow  ?  "  Torquil  ven- 
tured, with  undue  eagerness. 

"  No.  He  has  gone  among  foreigners.  He 
is  faring  as  far  as  Venice  —  the  Blessed  Mother 
knows  where  else.  He  will  not  be  here  for 
weeks.  The  old  man  swore  he  might  never 
come  again." 

"  Ah-h !     And  —  and  —  the  signorina  >  " 

"  Ha !  ha !  the  signorina  !  " 

"  Well,  what  of  her  ?  "  asked  Torquil,  sharply, 
alert  in  resentment,  for  the  woman's  voice  was 
a  sneer. 

"Oh,  /a  bella  Bergliota,  no  fear  for  her.  She 
will  do  well  enough." 

"  Is  she  within  ?  " 

"No." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"  Find  out  for  yourself." 

Torquil  saw  he  had  made  a  mistake.  The 
ice  in  his  voice  had  frozen  this  bubbling  well  of 
gossip.  The  woman,  who  looked  at  him  an- 
grily, was  heavy  and  vulgar,  but  had  once  been 
pretty. 

"  Ah,  you  beautiful  women  are  all  alike,"  he 


2/6  Froken   Bergliot. 

said  lightly ;  "  but  if  la  bella  Bergliota  has  gone, 
why,  then  Castel  Gandolfo  has  still  got youi''' 

The  ice  was  melted,  wholly  lost.  The  well 
o'erbrimmed. 

"  Ah,  signore,  how  sad  it  is  that  the  good 
Signor  Ernesto  should  be  so  worried  with  his 
niece !  True,  he  has  gone  far  this  time,  very 
far.     But  who  can  blame  him  wholly?" 

"  What  has  he  done  this  time?" 

"  Oh,  when  he  wanted  to  see  his  niece  this 
morning  early,  behold  no  Bergliota  was  to  be 
found  anywhere.  When  at  last  she  did  come  — 
after  Ermerilda's  Anita  had  scoured  the  whole 
country  for  her —  the  old  man  was  furious.  He 
called  her  a  useless  slut.  He  vowed  he  wished 
she  had  never  come  to  Castel  Gandolfo." 

"  What  did  she  say  ? " 

"  Oh,  she  up  with  her  head  like  a  wild  goat 
o'  the  hills,  and  said  that  she  was  quite  ready 
to  go  back  to  Norway.  '  Go,  then,'  cried  her 
uncle,  '  and  never  let  me  see  you  again ;  for, 
truth  to  tell,  I  am  tired  of  you  —  and  further 
truth  to  tell,  I  am  going  to  bring  the  widow  Lucia 
Lucchesi  from  Rome  to  share  bed  and  board 
with  me,  and  the  good  wife  won't  care  to  have 
you  idling  about.'    And  with  that  he  went  to  his 


Froken  Bergliot.  277 

cabinet,  and  taking  from  it  a  small  purse,  he  put 
some  g(5]d  in  it  and  flung  it  at  her,  saying  it  was 
more  than  she  was  worth,  but  he  gave  it  so  that 
no  one  could  say  he  turned  his  own  kindred  from 
his  door  without  a  soldo  to  bless  herself  with." 

"  And  she  ?  "  And  as  Torquil  spoke  with 
eager  heed,  the  woman  noticed  the  flush  on  his 
face  and  the  bright  light  in  his  eyes. 

"She?  She  took  it  of  course,  and  glad  to 
get  it.     It 's  more  than  she —  " 

"Yes;  but  in  what  way  did  she  take  it  — 
what  did  she  say  ?  "  interrupted  the  young  man, 
with  a  twinge  of  regret  at  learning  that  Bergliot 
had  not  returned  a  gift  given  with  a  churHshness 
so  rude. 

"  Ha !  ha !  'At  first  she  grew  as  red  as  a 
peony.  The  flush  went  over  her  face  like  wine 
spilt  in  the  lake  —  came  and  went  just  like  that. 
I  almost  thought  that  she  was  going  to  refuse  to 
take  the  money.  The  idea!  She  was  acting  — 
chit!  But  suddenly  she  turned  again.  'The 
sen^ant  is  worthy  of  her  hire,'  she  said  quietly; 
and  with  that  she  took  the  purse,  put  it  in  her 
pocket,  and  then,  holding  out  her  hand  to 
Signor  Rossi,  said  something  in  her  own  lan- 
guage which  I  guessed  to  be  a  request  to  shake 


2/8  Fioken  Bergliot. 

hands  in  farewell.  However,  I  know  no  more, 
save  that  Ernesto  Rossi  went  away  in  Andrea 
Placci's  wine-cart  at  eight  o'  the  clock,  and  that 
before  noon  Bergliota  packed  her  things,  said 
good-bye  to  some  o'  the  children  and  to  old 
Margherita  Corleone,  the  blind  woman,  and 
drove  off  in  the  carrier's  van  for  Rome." 

"  And  left  no  address  ?  " 

"Eh,  what,  address?  Perchlf  Ha!  ha! 
She  Ml  soon  find  a  pleasant  enough  place  in 
Rome,  I  '11  warrant." 

With  that  Torquil  Barnson's  wish  for  anti- 
quarian knowledge  ceased.  He  was  suddenly 
conscious  of  a  great  longing  to  see  Rome  once 
more.  It  was  almost  a  week  since  he  had  been 
there ! 

Yes,  there  was  the  evening  train.  He  had 
time  to  walk  back  to  Marino,  pack  up  his  be- 
longings, and  catch  il  ultimo  convoglio. 

Action  was  welcome.  Marino  was  reached 
as  though  he  had  skated  thither  on  black  ice. 
The  bill  was  paid ;  addios  were  exchanged ; 
finally,  the  train  was  caught. 

That  night,  as  he  walked  from  his  rooms  in 
the  Via  delle  Quattro  Fontane,  along  the  Via 
Sistina,  to  the  antique  fountain  that  throughout 


J 


Froken  Bergliot.  279 

the  year  makes  a  joy  of  coolness  and  sound  by 
the  gafes  of  the  Pincio,  he  wondered  what  the 
morrow  would  bring  forth.  It  was  strange  that 
in  the  falling  music  of  the  water  which  splashed 
and  gurgled  beneath  the  dense  ilex-dome,  even 
in  the  surging  sigh  that  came  up  from  the 
Piazza  di  Spagna  and  all  Ro?na  oscura  beyond, 
he  heard  the  same  murmur  as  in  the  wind  at 
liocca  di  Papa,  as  in  the  wavelets  lapping 
among  the  sedges  of  Lake  Albano.  Bergliota, 
came  this  murmur,  Bergliota  —  Bergliot  — 
Froken^  Froken  Bergliot. 

In  the  morning  he  began  his  quest.  No 
doubt  this  dawn-lover  whom  he  had  met  in  the 
woods  of  Tusculum  would  be  up  betimes ; 
scarcely  less' doubt  but  that  she  would  seek 
that  high  terrace  whence  sunrise  may  be  seen 
as  a  pink  rose  unfolding  over  the  white  rose  of 
Rome. 

But  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  solitary 
vigil,  the  idea  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that 
Froken  Bergliot  would  far  more  likely  hasten 
northward  than  linger  in  the  city  which  sheltered 
also  her  Uncle  Ernest. 

Of  course:  what  a  fool  he  had  been!  Why, 
the  north  mail  was  due  to  leave  in  twenty  min- 
utes or  so ! 


28o  Froken  Bergliot. 

Three  minutes  later  he  was  in  a  vettura  and 
being  driven  at  rattletrap  speed  towards  the  great 
gaunt  station  beyond  the  Baths  of  Diocletian. 

It  was  five  minutes  to  the  time  of  starting 
when  he  alighted.  A  two-soldi  platform  ticket 
enabled  him  to  pass  the  barrier.  There,  at  the 
bookstall,  he  saw  her:  tall,  beautiful,  his  god- 
dess of  the  morning  still. 

'' Parienza  / "  cried  a  guard,  with  premoni- 
tory urgency. 

Torquil  turned,  aghast  with  a  sudden  reflec- 
tion. He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  It  was 
too  true.  There  was  a  little  silver  in  his  right 
pocket;  in  the  left,  no  purse.  Both  paper- 
money  and  his  purse  of  gold  were  at  his  rooms. 
When  he  looked  again,  the  girl  had  gone. 

"  Are  you  going  by  this  train,  signore  ? " 
asked  a  guard,  imperatively. 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  —  no." 

"  Then  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  the  platform- 
His  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Naples  has 
just  arrived,  and  is  going  to  Florence  by  the 
express.  The  station  is  to  be  cleared.  No, 
signore,  you  cannot  go  to  the  bookstall  just 
now.     Pray  do  not  delay :  go,  I  beg  of  you." 

There  was  no  help   for  it.     But   as  Torquil 


^  Froken  Bergliot.  281 

turned  away  he  saw  a  small,  old-fashioned 
brass-nail-studded  box  lying  beside  the  luggage- 
wagon.  His  despairing  eye  caught  at  the 
name  printed  in  large  letters  :  Bergliot  Ross. 
In  a  second  he  stooped  to  note  the  address. 

The  label  was  in  two  parts.  On  the  lower 
half,  writ  large,  was  "  Hamburg."  That,  then, 
was  her  immediate  destination.  On  the  upper 
half  he  read,  "Froken  Bergliot  Ross,  Bergen, 
Norvegia." 

So  absorbed  was  he  that  he  did  not  at  first 
notice  the  arrival  of  the  royal  party.  When  he 
did  become  aware  of  the  fact,  by  the  bustle 
around  him,  he  saw  what  was  more  to  the  point, 
—  his  fresh  opportunity. 

The  too  attentive  guard  had  disappeared. 
Swiftly  walking  forward,  Torquil  reached  the 
bookstall.  On  the  wooden  shelf  that  projected 
from  it,  beside  piles  of  the  "  Fanfulla,"  the 
"  Popolo  Romano,"  and  other  papers,  was  an 
earthenware  jar  containing  a  score  of  lovely 
tea-roses  and  ruby-red  hearts-o'-love.  To  his 
right  was  a  gentleman,  who  laid  down  a  five- 
lire  note,  with  the  remark  that  he  would  have 
the  roses  "for  the  Prince."  The  newsvendor 
hesitated;  the  price  was  too  low. 


282  Froken  Bergliot. 

Torquil  put  down  all  the  silver  he  had  in  his 
pocket,  about  twelve  lire.  "  For  the  Princess," 
he  said,  and  quietly  walked  off  with  the  glory 
of  roses. 

Some  died  on  the  long  northward  journey ; 
a  few  lingered  and  went  seaward  with  the 
steamer  that  sailed  from  Hamburg;  one,  a 
deep,  fragrant  heart-o'-love,  reached  Bergen, 
and  filled  a  little  white  room  with  its  odour  and 
beauty. 

The  hot  autumn  was  followed  by  a  lovely 
St.  Martin's  summer.  Norway  was  bathed  in 
a  glow  of  gold  and  amber  light  by  day,  and 
veiled  in  starlit  violet  by  night. 

To  be  in  Norway,  to  breathe  this  Norland 
air  so  loved  and  longed  for,  to  rise  in  joy  and 
fall  asleep  in  peace  amid  all  this  home-sweet 
beauty,  was  to  Froken  Bergliot  a  delight  be- 
yond words. 

Only,  by  St.  Martin's  summer  she  was  no 
longer  Froken  Bergliot,  but  Frue  Bergliot 
Barnson. 


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